Necrophiliac's Honeymoon

  Also by Paul Neuhaus

  Company Town - Book 1 of the Quinn Henaghan Chronicles

  Magic! Monsters! Mayhem!

  All the things mousy Quinn Henaghan didn’t want in her life. But now, thanks to a long-hidden power, Quinn is fast on her way to becoming the world’s most powerful sorceress.

  Can she master her gift in time to save Los Angeles from the demon who’s been ruling it for a century?

  A paranormal adult romance thriller! In the tradition of The Dresden Files and Doctor Strange!

  Aeon of Horus - Book 2 of the Quinn Henaghan Chronicles

  A priceless artifact! A dark conspiracy! An approaching apocalypse!

  Quinn Henaghan is again embroiled in a situation not of her own making. Thieves, witch-hunters, demons and rival wizards all want a totem she acquired but didn't ask for. As she weaves her way through this collection of rogues, she learns the statue she holds is the only thing that stands between life as we know it and the total destruction of the earth!

  Urban Fantasy at its finest! In the tradition of The Dresden Files and Doctor Strange!

  Messiah of Burbank - Book 3 of the Quinn Henaghan

  Danger! Demons! Sex!

  Quinn Henaghan has a family now. She also has a new enemy, one far deadlier than any she’s faced before.

  Can the most powerful sorceress in the world defeat an ancient goddess hell-bent on destroying every magic-user everywhere? Can she protect the ones she loves from ruin and death?

  Read the senses-shattering conclusion to the Quinn Henaghan Chronicles to find out!

  Click the text or the book cover below for a free copy of Angle of the Dangle - a prequel set in the world of Pandora Weir!

  Free Book!

  “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

  —F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Prologue - Looky Loo

  The river Acheron wove, in Ancient Greece, near the village of Toryne and the Necromanteion, an ancient temple dedicated to Hades and Persephone. The river was (and is) a tributary to the river Styx, the great waterway flowing through the Underworld. Next to its banks, the newly-dead gathered for passage into the afterlife. Then, as now, their guide was Charon, the boatman who’s fare was two coins, one left on each eye of the deceased.

  The Archon flows, via a large cave mouth, into an underground passage. A passage so immediately dark that any mortal foolish enough to enter it was lost forever to the waking world.

  But Orpheus wasn’t just any mortal. His father was the Thracian king Oeagrus, and his mother was the muse Calliope, inspirer of eloquence and of epic poetry. He was also, in his youth, an Argonaut. He sailed with Jason in a quest for the Golden Fleece, and it was his powerful song that allowed the Argo’s passage between Scylla and Charybdis, the sirens who’s keening wails dashed many a ship upon the Strait of Messina.

  Orpheus’ gift of music was superhuman. He played the lyre and his voice could soothe both man and beast. Thanks to his mother’s blood and her tutelage, the boy wove lyrics that made the old young again and the young look to the horizon with prideful hope. Upon his return from his adventures with Jason and the other Argonauts, Orpheus traveled to the country of the Cicones. There he laid eyes upon Eurydice, the fairest woman he’d ever seen. He won the girl’s love with the fairness of his face and the transcendent power of his songs. The two became betrothed and a wedding followed in the spring. But misfortune befell the couple on the very day of their joining.

  Eurydice, in her wildflower garlands and her shift of silvery thread, became all the more fair from the joy of her blessed day. Indeed, she was so fair she attracted the attentions of a satyr, a creature of the forests with a deep lust for woman-flesh. So startled was Eurydice she ran away from the field of celebration and into the hilly country surrounding her village. Before Orpheus could stop the chase, the girl tripped and fell into a nest of vipers where she was stung a thousand thousand times by spiteful fangs. She died before she and Orpheus could consummate their union.

  So distraught was Orpheus, he neither bathed no ate more than bread for many weeks. He composed new songs of mourning and of sadness and even the beasts of the forest took pity upon him.

  Finally, his songs reached the halls of Olympus and his grief moved even the Gods. So much so they sent their messenger Hermes. Hermes was a tricksy god and given to mischief, but he was humble in the face of the boy’s great loss. “Go to the Necromanteion,” he said. “Near it you will find the spot where the river Archon enters the Underworld. Along the banks of the river, there is a footpath. In time, this footpath becomes a set of great stairs which descend into the very realm of Hades and Persephone. Go before them and plead your case. Plead your case with the power of your song.”

  Startled the gods themselves would take pity upon him, Orpheus set out at once for the Necromanteion. Once there, he walked to the river and found that Hermes had been true to his word. The river did enter the earth, and it did have a footpath along its leftmost bank.

  For many days, Orpheus, driven by an obsession so great he required neither food nor water, walked the path. Many times, Charon, the ferryman of the dead, passed him.

  At last he came to the promised stairs and, again for many days, he persevered—this time in complete darkness. Finally, his foot found the very floor of the Underworld and his eyes adjusted to the gray light of that forbidden realm. He passed through crowds of shades who parted for him and looked with jealousy upon his still-healthy flesh. Orpheus did his best to avert his eyes and move with respect amongst the dead. When he reached the center of the vast main chamber, he came to a dais and looked up. Atop the dais were two obsidian thrones, one bearing fair Persephone, the other bearing hollow-eyed Hades.

  “Rumors of your long journey precede you, Orpheus,” the god of the Underworld said. “I admire your persistence, but you know the living are unwelcome here.”

  Orpheus pointed to his throat and a hoarse whisper emerged.

  Hades nodded and pointed to the river flowing near his dais. “These waters here are safe and you may imbibe them.”

  Orpheus knelt and cupped his hand in the fast-flowing current. Many times, he drank from the cold water and was, at last, refreshed. When he stood, he took the lyre from his belt and began to sing.

  He sang a song of alternating joy and bitter mourning. He sang of his pure love for Eurydice and of how his soul shattered at her loss. All the shades stood in utter silence, their sad eyes fixed upon the musician. Persephone wept and even Hades felt a softening in his heart. “Orpheus, Eurydice is here. Because these grim halls have never heard the like of your song before, I will grant you a boon. I will return your love to you, but you must abide by one simple rule. Leave my domain as you came. Ascend the stairs and walk the footpath back along the Acheron. With you the whole way, just a few steps behind, will be Eurydice. You may trust me on this score. And trust me you must, for, if at any point in your journey back to the world of mortal men, you turn to check on her, Eurydice will return to the Underworld, and you will never see her again until you yourself die. Can you do this thing, Orpheus?”

  Orpheus was overcome with gratitude and joy. “Yes, I can do it,” he replied.

  “Go then,” Hades commanded. “You’ve already been too long in this place.”

  And so, Orpheus doubled back along his own path, walking between the shades until he came again to the winding stairs. For many days, he climbed and, though the way was dark, never once did he turn.

  He did not experience the first pangs of doubt until he again reached the inside of the cave through which the river Acheron wound. For most of his journey in that dark environ he managed to keep the fingers of doubt and fear from
clutching his fretful heart. Indeed, he made it to the very threshold of the cave and saw the light of the sun before he turned. Thereupon he saw the shade of his beloved react with wide-eyed horror and fly again back into the Underworld.

  For a long time, Orpheus stared back into the cave mouth, bereft. He fell to his knees and his mouth opened and closed but emitted no sound. Finally, he turned toward the river where he saw Charon the boatman passing. Hooded Charon with his ferry and long pole, an inscrutable figure in his ash-gray raiment. When the ferryman spoke, his voice sounded like bones rattling against one another. “Wow,” he said. “You must be the dumbest motherfucker in all mythology.”

  1

  Dora

  I’m what the kids call a “waste case”. I live in a trailer on Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu, I drink as much cheap beer as I can lay my hands on, and I love, love, love marijuana. The day the dispensary opened near me was the best day of my long life.

  My name’s Pandora Weir. People call me Dora.

  Actually, it’s not right to say I live in the trailer. I’ve enwombed myself in the trailer, and I only come out when I need food, booze or weed. How’d I get so reclusive? What brought me to this point? First of all, don’t act like my situation wasn’t a deliberate choice. I don’t need your high n’ mighty airs. Still, if I had to put a label on it, I’d say I’m all drained of fucks. I’m a wrung-out fuckrag. The last fuck I gave was, I think, in the late aughts and, though I can’t remember it clearly, I’d lay odds it was a mediocre fuck at best.

  I have no family to complain about my tragic decline, and my “friends” barely fit the definition. There are a few people in the world here and there with whom I share weird history, but I don’t look forward to seeing them, and they don’t go out of their way to see me. Which is fine. I’m good where I’m at, and I can honestly say I don’t need anything else. I have my shitty trailer, I have my 1976 Sierra Gold Pontiac Firebird Esprit (the color of Zeus’ piss), and I have my sex toys. What more could a girl want?

  Well, since you asked, maybe a little peace and quiet. I’ve got a roommate that chatters at me day in and day out like a murder of crows. She’s what you’d get if Jiminy Cricket fucked MLK and made a preachy Conscience Baby. Fortunately, I’m able to keep a lid on her most of the time. (Which, trust me, is a funny joke. You’ll see.)

  My trailer sits on asphalt next to the Tonga Lei Lounge, a beat-down old restaurant. Just the spot if you’re a fan of botulism. My “yard” is a narrow perimeter around the mobile home with a sewage hook-up for my poopies and enough space for a redwood picnic table and a charcoal grill. I’m out there most nights burning lamb kabobs and drinking either Budweiser or PBR (whichever’s on sale). In other words, I’m living fancy all up in here.

  Since I’ve got an almost infinite supply, I don’t do much with my time. Sometimes I read vampire books, but I don’t even know why. Most of them aren’t very good. There’s this weird thing in vampire stories where, if the bloodsucker’s been around long enough, he winds up rich and comfortable. I’m here to tell you, though, an unnaturally long life doesn’t necessarily lead to beaucoup bucks. I am, by all appearances, a grown-ass woman and I can barely take care of myself. Maybe that has more to do with my attitude than it does any misconceptions vis a vis the immortal or the nearly immortal.

  Before you jump to the wrong conclusion, I am not a vampire myself (or a “Lamia” as the Greek tradition would have it). I got the immortality I so subtly alluded to by way of a curse. Before you derail the conversation with a lot of tail-chasing questions, yes, curses are a real thing and I’ve got myself a doozy. It may be the first and greatest curse of all time. I don’t like to brag, but I just might be the Michael Jordan of cursed people.

  You know the saying “It’s better to beg forgiveness than it is to ask permission”? I’m here to tell you that’s total bullshit. You try opening up a box full of Evil and see how much forgiveness you get. Turns out, when you let loose demons-a’-plenty, forgiveness is in short supply.

  So, yeah, I’m that Pandora. Before you guys dog-pile me, let me get one thing out of the way—especially since I just used the term myself: It wasn’t a box, it was a jar. Specifically, it was a pithos, the Greek pots you see at most of your finer museums. The whole “box” thing came in in the sixteenth century when this dude named Erasmus of Rotterdam mistranslated Hesiod. I know you’re probably thinking, Box? Jar? Who gives a fuck? Earlier I said, I didn’t have any more fucks to give, but I guess I was wrong. I have exactly one fuck and it’s the whole pithos/box thing. It’s a pet peeve. Sue me.

  Anyway, back to the curse thing. Curses are usually a form of entrapment. Like when the cops leave a bunch of drugs laying around and then they arrest the junkies for trying to be junkies. The gods put all the worst things they could think of into this pithos and then they gave it to me. But they didn’t just give it to me, they also said, “Hey, we’re not gonna tell you what’s in here, but, whatever you do, don’t open it.” I was young, and I was naive, so of course I opened it. And, as soon as I did, here comes Zeus putting on his daddy voice. “We told you not to open it! You opened it, and now you gotta pay!” When the allfather tells you you gotta pay, you best believe you gotta pay. Long story short, Lightning Boy says, until I gather up all the Evils and put them back in the pithos, I gotta walk the earth forever.

  Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.

  So, I spent umpteen thousand years hunting Evils and returning them to the pithos. Until one day I looked around and said to myself, “Why the fuck’m I doing this?” You see the Olympians had long since fucked off to... wherever it was they fucked off to, and I wondered who it was I was still trying to please. I stopped my Pokémon hunt from Hell and guess what happened? Bupkis. I mean, I’m still not dying, but no one’s coming after me to make sure I clean up my mess. With no parental supervision, I’m free to be what I always wanted to be: a bump on a log. Or at least I try. Hope does her level best to get me back on track.

  When I opened the jar and let out all the Evils, there was one thing still inside and that was Hope. I’ve always wondered what the gods were on about when they did that. Were they saying, “The Evils escaped, but you’ll always have hope.” Was it a lame-ass homily? I don’t think it was. After all, Hope stayed in the jar. Wouldn’t it have been more, well, hopeful if she’d gotten out along with all that terrible evil? She isn’t doing anybody any good stuck in the pithos. Me least of all.

  Hope is the cricket/civil rights leader hybrid I mentioned. She, like a lot of things in the Greek religion, is not just a concept but a personified concept. I’d say she’s a walking, talking state of mind but she doesn’t do much walking. She’s a disembodied voice that lives in a clay pot. Anyway, like I say, most nights I grill my lamb and then I sit at my picnic table and talk to the bright n’ sunny gal living in my jug. You’d think I’d be used to her by now, but even after all this time, she still gets on my nerves something terrible.

  The girl means well, but there’s only so much haranguing I can take. She wants me to eat healthier, she wants me to get out and mix with real people, she wants me to think better of myself. Mostly what she wants is for me to get back on the Evil-trapping train.

  On a particular night in June, Hope was chirping on about a new Evil that’d popped up right in our own backyard. A minor beastie was poking its nose around greater Los Angeles and my jar-bound friend thought it’d be a good, low-impact way for us to get back in fighting trim. I sat there and chewed my overly well-done baby sheep and sipped my Bud. I stared off into the surf beyond our parking lot and wondered if the Pacific had it in itself to drown my cursed ass. I doubted it did. Given Zeus’ black mark, I assumed the ocean would just pull me under for a while and then dump me again somewhere around La Jolla.

  “You’re not listening to me, are you?” Hope said, sounding like Shirley Temple with a Peloponnesian accent. “I’ve been talking and you’re not listening to me.”

  “I was listening,” I replied. W
hat I was really doing was wondering whether I could survive a shark attack. Not just a shark attack but a feeding frenzy. Dozens of sharks tearing me apart and eating the bits seemed like a foolproof way to cheat a curse. After all, how you gonna be cursed if you’re shark shit?

  “Oh, yeah?” Hope said. “What was I talking about?”

  “Something about me going back to school. Or how my child-bearing years aren’t behind me.”

  The body-less creature in the jar would’ve stamped her foot if she’d had one. “No! I said there’s an itty-bitty little Evil nearby and we should try and scoop it up. For old time’s sake.”

  “Oh, yeah, no, I heard that part, but then there was a lot of talking after that and it was all like ‘wahm, wahm, wahm, wahm, wahm’ like those little go karts at the mini golf place. Hey, maybe we should go to the mini golf place. Play some skee ball. Maybe win a goldfish.”

  “You killed the last goldfish. You gave it ham.”

  “He was watching me eat my sandwich. He looked sad.”

  “Look, I’ve got a line on this guy. I know exactly where he is, and I can tell from here: he’s nothing. He’s a lightweight. You could do it in your sleep. He’s like the one from Steubenville. Do you remember? Back in ’94. You were angry because you had to set foot in Ohio and it was barely worth it. You made a sex joke.”

  “That sounds like me.”

  “Sure. It was a riff on premature ejaculation. It was funny because you were comparing the Evil’s poor performance in battle to a man with limited bedroom skill.”

  “Dissection kills the frog.”

  “Huh?”

  “‘Explaining a joke is like dissecting a frog. You understand it better, but the frog dies in the process.’ E.B. White said that. The Charlotte’s Web guy.”