Some Legends Never Die (Monsters and Mayhem Book 2) Read online

  Some Legends Never Die

  Monsters and Mayhem Book Two

  E A Comiskey

  Scarsdale Publishing, Ltd

  Contents

  Trademark Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  E A Comiskey

  Sneak Peek at the next Monsters and Mayhem

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Some Legends Never Die: Book Two Monsters and Mayhem © 2020 by Elizabeth Ann Comiskey

  * * *

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Cover Design: dreams2media

  Editor: Kimberly Comeau

  SP

  Trademark Acknowledgments

  The Taco Wagon

  Hyatt Hotels

  Morgan’s

  Coke

  Top of the Hill

  Walmart

  Al’s Breakfast

  Entertainment Weekly

  Dairy Queen

  The Weather Channel

  Boy Scouts

  Spearfish Regional Hospital

  Salvation Army

  Wray Municipal Airport

  Wray Museum

  Dollar General

  Miralax

  Big Nose Kate’s Saloon

  HBO

  The Emporium

  Crystal Palace

  The Longhorn Café

  Six Gun City

  Circle K

  O.K. Cafe

  Mack Truck

  Velcro

  For my dad, the original Curmudgeon.

  Chapter One

  Richard

  Cobwebs dangled from splintered windows that dotted one side of the rusty trailer. Screams emanated from behind the thin, poorly constructed walls. Near the front door, a tall, thin man in a dark tailcoat shouted above the joyous rumble of the crowd. “Come one, come all. Take a journey through the afterlife. Mingle with spirits, dance with monsters, but don’t stay too long or you may forget your way out of the Tomb of the Dead.”

  Richard rolled his eyes at the carnival barker. Kids spending an hour’s income of their parents’ wages for the privilege of three minutes of being scared by plastic skeletons and rubber spiders. Little brats had no idea what really peered out at them from the shadows at night. How could they? He hadn’t known. For more than seven decades he’d gotten along just fine, more or less, thinking humans ruled the prime spot in Earth’s food chain. Then Stan friggin’ Kapcheck, his neighbor at the Everest Senior Living Facility, got him mixed up in monster hunting and he hadn’t trusted a dark corner since.

  Today, though, he clung to his determination to enjoy the moment and ignore the world of monsters. He tuned out the nonsense going on at the carnival “fun house,” and focused his attention upon the masterpiece before him. That particular corndog rivaled anything ever created by some over-bred, high-falootin’ French chef, and he’d go to the mat to defend that opinion with anyone who dared tell him otherwise. This lumpy, slightly misshapen masterpiece bore no resemblance whatsoever to any factory-made frozen food-like product. He’d watched the kid with purple spiked hair jam a stick in a hotdog and dunk it into a clear plastic tub full of creamy batter before dropping it into the basket of bubbling oil. When it came out, golden crust gleaming like the life-giving sun, Richard knew he’d won the culinary lottery. The kid then proved he was a genius in freak’s clothing when he scooped a handful of fried onion petals into a paper basket and laid his creation upon that glorious bed of grease.

  Richard asked for a Coke to go with it, paid roughly the same amount as he had for a week’s groceries back in his lonely widower days, and shuffled across the blacktop to the picnic table Burke and Stanley had staked a claim to. He had to weave his way through a crowd that included a ten-foot-tall Uncle Sam, two enormous peanuts with legs, and a frazzled-looking woman with a troupe of children bouncing along in her wake like a row of over-sugared ducklings. Finally, he reached the table and set his treasures on the rough wooden tabletop. All the while, the rich, heady aroma of fried cornbread and onions rose from the flimsy basket, teasing him with promises of flavor to come.

  Too eager for lunch to care about dignity, he used his right hand to hoist his leg over the bench, plunked down on his bony butt, used both hands to get the left leg up and over, and swiveled into a proper seated position. He neither knew nor cared how he’d ever manage to extricate himself from the table and its attached benches when the time came. That first bite made it all worthwhile—crunchy on the outside, moist and steamy on the inside, with the salty meatiness of the wiener in the middle. He mashed it up between ill-fitted dentures, struggling to stifle a moan. The second bite held more meat and less bread and contained a surprising little burst of delicious grease.

  When he lifted the tab on the can of Coca-Cola, it popped with a satisfying hiss and a snap that sent an effervescent spray of icy soda raining down to settle like so many dewdrops upon the white hairs of his forearm. The sweet, tickling liquid sowed a row of cold satisfaction down his throat.

  He closed his eyes and sighed in pleasure while Little Anthony and The Imperials sang over the loudspeaker about tears on pillows and someone revved the engine of the 1968 Shelby GT they’d brought to exhibit in the classic car show. When he opened his eyes, he found Burke sitting directly across from him, eyebrows raised just above the rims of her enormous mirrored sunglasses. Her cheeks lifted in a smile that displayed the freckles on her tawny brown skin.

  “Why you grinnin’ like a possum eatin’ a sweet potato?”

  She selected a peanut from the cup on the table and used her manicured pink nails to break it open. “I just don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone enjoy a meal so completely.”

  Richard popped an onion petal into his mouth. The crunchy tang highlighted the other flavors, overwhelming none of them. The culinary lottery, for sure. “Now it’s a crime for a man to enjoy his lunch?”

  Unaffected by his gruff tone, she ate her peanut and reached for another. “I think it’s nice that you are so happy.”

  “To truly, thoroughly enjoy a meal is considered by some to be a high form of meditation, capable of bringing a man into communion with the gods,” Stanley said in
his fancy British accent. He sat on the tabletop, his perfectly shined black shoes propped on the bench. He wore slim fit blue jeans and a bright white, starched shirt with the top two buttons open and the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. A newsboy hat protected his bald head from the bright Alabama sun.

  “Why can’t you sit on the bench like God intended?” Richard asked.

  Miss Peanut Festival strode past in impossible, sparkly silver shoes. Her tan legs flexed and stretched beneath a pale-yellow skirt tossed about by the gentle breeze. Golden locks hung in ringlets nearly to her slim waist. Her eyes lingered on Stanley a moment and a smile kissed the dimpled corner of her full, wide mouth.

  Stanley tipped his hat in her direction. “The view is delightful from up here, Richard.”

  Richard harrumphed into his corndog. “I ain’t some dirty old man.” But he couldn’t quite keep his eyes from following the princess’s progress as she sashayed around a corner and disappeared.

  Paul Anka took over the music and started crooning for his girl to put her head on his shoulder and whisper in his ear. A group of teenage girls on a ride screamed high above their heads. “It ain’t a bad little festival,” he admitted.

  “Indeed,” Stanley agreed. “Did you know that most of the carnival companies in America aren’t actually operated by humans at all but by—”

  “Stop it,” Burke said. “I don’t want to know. For half a year I’ve been chasing hide-behinds and fighting shapeshifters. If the ride operators here are all descended from Big Foot, I don’t even want to know. For one day, I just want to sit here and eat these peanuts and not worry about what might be looking to eat me.”

  “They don’t eat people. They—”

  “Stanley Kapcheck, I swear to God, I will pistol whip you if you try to finish that sentence.”

  Stanley chuckled. “I don’t often see the resemblance between you and your grandfather, but at moments like this, there is no doubt in my mind.” He waved at a troupe of silver-haired cloggers clad in impressively supportive tights and leotards bedecked with all manner of red white and blue spangles and fringe. The taps on their shoes click-clacked against the pavement, creating a ruckus akin to the wheels of a steam engine rattling along a rusty rail. The ladies blushed and waved back.

  Richard rolled his eyes and focused on enjoying the last of the corn dog. An unsettling weight pressed against his ribs but another sip of Coca-Cola carried the pressure away on the wind of a long, low belch. Several of the cloggers’ smiles turned to dirty looks flashed at him. He shrugged, unapologetic. Everybody burped. If some people wanted to pretend otherwise, well, he couldn’t stop anyone from being as uppity as they chose to be.

  When the noise from the cloggers died down, the paper basket was emptied, and the peanuts reduced to a pile of empty shells, Stanley said, “You know, at some point, we’re going to have to decide whether or not we have the collective courage to face this challenge.”

  “Stanley,” Burke said, a warning in her voice.

  Stanley shifted so he could more easily see Burke. “I know you’ve no desire to discuss the hidden dangers of the world today but, honestly, isn’t that why we stopped here? To take some time to evaluate what we know and proceed with prudence.”

  “You might be the expert hunter in this group,” Richard said, “but you don’t know about this. Not the way Burke and I know.”

  “Once you enter her world, it’s nearly impossible to get out again,” Burke said.

  “She’ll suck at your soul until you start praying for death,” Richard added. He shuddered at the memory of sitting in his room at the nursing home, waiting for his body to realize his life had ended long ago. Those were the days before Stanley had dragged him into the whirlwind of a monster-hunting existence. He’d been blind to the wonders, both good and bad, hidden in plain sight all around him.

  “She’s protective of her offspring, but she’ll turn on them, too, given the slightest provocation,” Burke said.

  “Then we must be exceedingly careful not to provoke her,” Stanley said.

  “She draws you in with tears, makes you feel sorry for her, so you aren’t expecting when she moves in for the kill,” Richard said.

  “We shall remain on guard against all forms of emotional trickery,” Stanley said.

  “She’s clever. She’ll try to separate us. Divide and conquer,” Burke said.

  “No one goes in alone. That’s just good hunter sense,” Stanley said.

  “That nest of vampires in California was downright open-minded by comparison,” Richard said.

  “I cannot force either of you to face this, but the connection between her and you is powerful and I don’t believe you’ll rest well until this matter is settled. You two will not dissuade me from my opinion. Together, we are strong enough to deal with her,” Stanley said.

  Burke wrapped the end of one long braid around her finger. “You don’t have anything like her in your journal, Stanley.”

  Richard sucked down the remainder of his Coke. “She’s got these pointy little fingernails and they make this noise—”

  “It’ll destroy you from the inside out,” Burke finished for him.

  “Surely you both exaggerate. In all this time fighting monsters—”

  Burke leaned forward on both elbows. “What will you do if things go south? We can’t defeat her by stabbing her with a silver dagger or shooting her with lead bullets.”

  “Salt won’t keep her away. She thrives on the stuff.”

  Stanley cocked his head to one side and regarded them in silence for a little while. On the loudspeaker, a low southern voice announced that the greased pig contest would start in thirty minutes. A teen boy walked by lugging a stuffed monkey as large as himself. A banner flapped against the wall of a nearby building. In big red letters on a white background, it announced, “Coleum Corp, where there’s space for all.” At last he said, “She’s your family. Your daughter. Your mother. And since you are the closest thing I have to family, when she calls and asks that we come for an early Thanksgiving, I say we ought to go and eat turkey and pumpkin pie. And no amount of chatter from the two of you will convince me that the woman is some kind of demonic entity.”

  Burke dropped her head onto her folded arms. “She’s going to try to hook me up with someone horrid,” she mumbled against the tabletop.

  “She’ll try to get me back in the nursing home,” Richard said. “She thinks I’m old.”

  “You are old, Dick.”

  Richard scowled. Lord, but he hated being called Dick.

  Stanley just chuckled. “Come on, you two sourpusses. It’s a festival. Let’s enjoy it.”

  “I was enjoying it until you insisted we have this conversation,” Richard said. Already, his stomach had begun to send out distress signals, but no matter what came, the delicacy had been worth it.

  “There’s a greased pig contest,” Stanley said, hopping lithely down from the tabletop.

  Unnatural. Even if he didn’t have aches and pains, which he ought to have at his age—well, technically, he should be dead at his age, but all things considered—he still ought to have the decency to move at a certain accepted and expected pace. To do otherwise served no purpose but to brag. Pompous old peacock.

  Richard carefully hoisted himself out of the picnic table with a fine and proper amount of grunting and crunching joints, as befitted a senior citizen.

  Burke collected their trash and dropped it in a nearby bin. “What exactly is a greased pig contest and why are we going to see it?”

  Stanley strolled through the crowd with his hands in his pockets, face tilted slightly up toward the crystalline sky. “They grease up a pig and set it loose and try to catch it. There’s a skill to it. Not everyone can manage.”

  “No doubt,” Burke replied.

  “This year, the organizers of the race wanted to get more bang for their buck.”

  Richard’s guts squirmed. After six months with Stan Kapcheck, he understood this sensation had lit
tle to do with his gastric worries and more to do with the pending announcement that death and destruction loomed in their near future. With Stan, there was always a pending announcement of death and destruction in the near future. That was Stanley’s stock in trade.

  “They sought out the fastest, most powerful pig they could find,” Stanley said.

  Burke’s glasses remained pointed straight ahead, her lips pressed into a thin, tight line.

  “They selected a real doozy. Not just an average pig, but a saehrimnir.”

  “One day, Stanley. Just one day of hanging out at a festival,” Burke said.

  Stanley pulled one hand from his pocket and lifted it in a gesture of surrender. “Festivals are tricky. Like I tried to tell you. More often than not, the carnivals are run by—”

  “Just tell us what the devil a saehrimnir is,” Richard snapped.

  “They are pigs destined for the tables of the Norse gods. If anyone here dares slaughter one, the wrath of the gods could well wipe Dothan, Alabama, right off the map.” Stan winked at a redhead in a pair of teeny tiny shorts and a crocheted halter top that served little purpose beyond keeping her just this side of a public indecency citation.

  The woman winked back.

  Richard burped and immediately felt a little better. “They’re just going to catch it though, right? Not like they’ll tear it limb from limb.”