Luckily, today the wheels re-aligned and I got back on track. I spent the day running errands and working on pitches and adding words to "The Gotterdammerung Gavotte" which is fun to write and likely suffers as a story because of that fact. Cramming so many characters into under 10,000 words is always a gamble, but I think the end result will be worth it. Possibly. Theoretically. Hopefully.
The aforementioned pitches were for Black Library, both for short stories (though I do have the initial pass at a novel proposal due on Friday) and both featuring characters I've written before, though in vastly different contexts. More later on those, I'm sure. Tonight, however, is for Neferata line-edits.
Can you see how much fun I'm having?
Here, have some WIP:
St. Cyprian fought the wheel, trying to follow the astrologer’s shouted directions. They took a narrow by-street and the brick walls to either side gave twin groans as sudden canyons were carved across their heights, showering the Crossley with bits of brick and dust.
“They’re still on us,” Warren said, hunched on the running board.
“We’re close,” Dual said.
“So are they,” Warren snapped. Bricks thumped into the Crossley’s hood and cracked the windshield. The hood buckled, causing the front tires to squeal. The windshield burst, spattering St. Cyprian with glass. Something invisible, but strong, burst through and what felt like a hairy, scaly talon fastened about his throat, shoving him back into his seat.
“Grab the wheel!” St. Cyprian gurgled as he fumbled in his coat, his vision going black at the edges. The Crossley slewed as both Warren and Dual grabbed for the wheel. Gallowglass sat up, her Webley snarling at the windshield. Whatever had St. Cyprian gave a thunderous swine-grunt and a smell like spoilt eggs and milk washed over the car’s passengers. St. Cyprian’s fingers found a glass vial, one of several, in his pockets and he pulled it free and shattered it against whatever inhuman limb held his throat. Immediately a foul-smelling smoke boiled forth, choking him even as the pressure on his neck released and his attacker retreated with a thin scream; whatever it was rolled off of the hood, leaving only a large indentation in the metal to mark its passing.
“Oil of hyssop,” St. Cyprian rasped, rubbing his throat. “Handy as engraver’s acid, in a pinch.”