The Curious Case of Simon Todd

  The Curious Case of Simon Todd

  By

  Vanessa Hawkins

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 978-0-2286-0369-6

  Kindle 978-0-2286-0370-2

  PDF 978-0-2286-0371-9

  Print ISBN 978-0-2286-0372-6

  Amazon Print ISBN 978-0-2286-0373-3

  Copyright 2018 by Vanessa Hawkins

  Cover art by Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

  Dedication

  To Mom and Dad.

  Chapter 1

  A Steep Road Ahead

  Simon Todd had only just perished, but the fact that he wasn’t sure if he could smell his afternoon tea was much more concerning at the moment.

  “It smells good, I think,” Simon mused, sitting on his porch and looking up at the vast fields of Miss Baxter’s farm. The large, two story white house she lived in with her rather rotund father, Mr. Jeremy Baxter, sat on the top of a green hill like a dab of white cream on a green tea cupcake. Simon Todd, with the same nicely pressed trousers, collared shirt and overcoat he had worn on the day of his death three days ago, was trying to inhale the scent of the freshly warmed pie he baked that morning. He couldn’t tell if he could smell it, or if he was merely remembering its scent and his now ghostly nostrils were delivering remembered essences of its aroma to his brain in an attempt to satisfy his curiosity.

  “Bah!” Simon huffed, reaching into his coat and drawing a kerchief from one pocket. “It’s no use.” He pressed the cloth to his rather thin nose, afraid the spores oozing from the apple tree blossoms and the fungal parasites clinging to its branches would infiltrate his still fully functioning — to his eternal dismay — allergies. Not everything was lost to him, it seemed. The pie at least gave him a chance to visit Miss Baxter and perhaps subtly invite himself to dinner. Simon Todd’s scowl softened at the thought, and straight up he stood, appearing larger than he actually was on the small porch of his humble home.

  He looked towards his garden, admiring the early blooming dahlias bobbing their sunny heads in front of the cabbage patch. The whole lot was impeccably groomed with care, closest to the sun on the left side of his house. Simon boasted a rather green thumb when it came to horticulture. Though, he noted, the white fence in front of his house needed to be painted. It would then match better with the white shutters framing each front window and compliment the lovely floral curtains that brought the outside in. His house was a nice little gentleman bachelor’s home. Simon liked to keep it in good repair.

  Distracted by a tickle of something crawling over his knuckles, Simon quickly flicked his hand away with a start, fearing it may be a spider. When he did so — and saw that nothing was there — Simon noticed a familiar individual walking up the road.

  “Mr. Dashing?” Mr. Todd quickly tucked his stained kerchief into his pocket and began walking towards the fence. His face grew a little hot when he noticed the ever charming Miss Baxter, with plump cheeks and full lips, dressed in a white frock on the other gentleman’s arm. Her ivory crook in one hand spawned visions in his mind, and Simon Todd felt his embarrassment flare when the two began to look in his direction. It had been a sum of three days since he had taken the rather fatal tumble off the roof of Miss Baxter’s home. Simon had since been to town once to pick up wheat flour for the pie, and twice to return the wheat flour in exchange for pastry flour. Not one person recognized him as anything beyond a living man, but Simon Todd was more than a bit bashful at having fallen from the lovely Miss Baxter’s roof, in what they would assume was an explicit act of voyeurism, and so didn’t overtly ask if anyone noticed something amiss. If Miss Baxter herself knew — and Simon was certain she didn’t — surely she wouldn’t have told anyone. Especially that rogue Dick Dashing, he hoped.

  Mr. Todd straightened, reaching the pinnacle of every inch his height could afford. Together, 5’4 and eleven stone didn’t seem very menacing, especially since he was a good head and shoulders shorter than Mr. Dashing and lacked a great deal more muscle. The scoundrel looked like a highwayman, Simon thought, opening his white gate and stepping onto the dirt road. Mr. Todd, alternatively, had a very uncanny resemblance to a skinny rectangle padded in nice attire.

  Dick was wearing a brown leather duster and riding pants with a pistol strapped to each hip. The leather slapped against itself as he walked. The large blunderbuss holstered to his back moved from side to side as he regarded Miss Baxter beneath his large, bulbous nose. Simon Todd thought the man’s schnoz looked like a wedge you’d tuck under a doorframe, one you had kicked a few times to cause a large bump in the middle. The large moustache Mr. Dashing grew beneath it didn’t detract from it either. The facial hair grew down and framed his mouth and chin. He also had an impossibly square jawline.

  Currently Mr. Dashing was regarding the young lady beside him. Mr. Todd made a mental note of how many times that scoundrel thieved a glance at the lady’s bosom. At least ten times, which was eight times too many to be regarded as curious. Poor Miss Baxter, with her honeyed hair and soft cheeks, was ignorant of Dick’s unhealthy fascination with her.

  “Why, hello Mr. Todd!” Dashing waved a hand. He was wearing riding gloves, though Simon hadn’t seen him with a horse. The gravelled road crunched underfoot as they came near. Simon sucked in a breath through his nose out of forceful habit and not in an effort to breathe.

  “Dick. “Dashing,” he said. Simon Todd straightened his suit, feeling his nose begin to itch as the emerald grass swayed in the fields surrounding them. Mr. Dashing with his handlebar moustache tipped his hat in Simon’s direction. There was a cerulean peacock feather tucked into its brim, as well as an ornate set of riding goggles adorning it. An Arcane rune was set in the center of one lens.

  Simon had met Mr. Dashing on several occasions, had seen him use the goggles only once and that was when he was drinking. He had shot a copper coin out of the air and hit Gerald Flincher in the back of the head. The poor fellow thought he’d been stung by a bee and had to pay a visit to the doctor on account that he was allergic. Dick Dashing had a good laugh. Simon thought it was of poor sport.

  Regardless, Simon Todd smiled back and then took a moment to regard the blushing Miss Baxter. The young girl said his name, leaning forward in a polite curtsy. Simon found himself thinking the ivory choker around her neck looked quite fetching, especially the pendant that fell demurely down in the center.

  “Miss Baxter. It… is a pleasure.” He stumbled over the first word. His eyes flitted to her face, the choker, her face then once more to her necklace in several quick successions before fleeing to Mr. Dashing’s face— how in the world young girls found him attractive Simon would never know.

  “Well met.” Dashing smiled. Simon chewed on his tongue. “I was hoping we could bother you for a visit. I have some important matters to discuss.” Dick Dashing paused, his eyes roaming towards the porch. “Unless you are tending to eat that pie by yourself?”

  Simon blinked, following Dick’s gaze before returning to first glance at Miss Baxter and then Dashing himself. Simon sniffed, stuttering again as he looked down at the road and fumbled for the kerchief in his pocket. “Of course not.” Simon turned halfway, gesturing for the couple to follow. “Please, this way,” he continued.

  The sun was ripe in the sky, but beneath the porch the trio were shaded. Mr. Todd went inside to boil water for a pot of tea for
the three of them and offer his guests the fine china for their dessert. By the time he returned, Dick had already lit a cigar, and Miss Baxter was fiddling with the lace adorning her bonnet. It matched perfectly with her white dress.

  “I hope these matters aren’t too severe,” Simon said, placing the tray on the table and offering each of his guests a plate. He felt a pang of worry for the young lady on his porch, but as she smoothed down the fabric of her frock and smiled, Simon felt his anxiety quite assuaged.

  “No.” Dick blew out a cloud of smoke.

  As it covered his face, Simon snuffed it up in one big inhalation and felt his nose twitch threateningly. He pulled out his handkerchief as he sat down, just in case.

  “No, no,” Mr. Dashing assured. “Nothing severe.” Simon frowned when Mr. Dashing flicked a large burning ember onto the porch and stepped on it. “In fact, I was hoping to convince you of a treasure hunt.” He smiled, pulling the pie forward and scooping a rather large bite into his mouth.

  “Treasure hunt?” Simon watched as pastry stuck to the gentleman’s moustache.

  “Righto.” Dick had a deep voice, full of confidence. Miss Baxter chuckled and pointed to the pie on Mr. Dashing’s face. Simon almost wished he had a beard too, but he was as clean shaven as a peach pit. He also possessed a quiet voice and soft skin with perpetual fuzz around a triangular face. Also, much like a peach.

  “I’m,” Simon paused, not wanting to look the coward in front of Miss Baxter. “I’m not sure why you would seek my… help.” He was a good gardener, had studied a bit of horticulture back in the day. But at twenty six Mr. Todd made his living in town, bookkeeping for the bank. He never really handled the money mind you, but calculated the daily interest and withdrawals. He was quite good at math, but not much else. His father had wanted him to enlist in the army and fight mages, but Simon was a bit afraid of sorcery. He could never quite fathom why a good mannered young girl like Miss Baxter would study necromancy, of all things. He always assumed she had a fragile soul and so therefore could not bear to witness the death of her livestock.

  “Well Sir, we need a record keeper of course. A person that can read maps, carry the books.” Mr. Dashing took another mouthful of pie and smiled.

  Simon’s head perked up. “Like a scholar?” he inquired. No one had ever thought him smart enough to call him a scholar before.

  “No-o-o, no, no, no.” The amount of no’s that came after seemed rather excessive. “More like,” he smacked his lips, “someone to water the horses and pitch the tents and cook the food.”

  Simon frowned.

  Mr. Dashing leant forward, stabbing the pie with the fork and saying with a mouthful of food, “You are good at cooking. You’d do nicely.”

  Thinning his lips and sitting straight and stiff as to conceal his distaste, Simon turned to the young lady. “You aren’t planning on going with him now are you, Miss Baxter?” He felt a sudden shock of worry grip his insides. The young lady smiled politely, twirling her shepherd’s crook in her lap.

  “I’ve never went treasure hunting before, Mr. Todd. I think it sounds rather fun.”

  Oh, Simon inwardly cried. What an innocent creature you are to think that!

  “Of course she will come! We need her magic to help us.” Mr. Dashing’s boisterous voice shook Simon out of his thoughts. “She may look soft, but her magic’s sharp as a stiletto.” Simon watched the brass buttons on Mr. Dashing’s duster flicker as they caught the sunlight. “Besides, she’ll be perfectly safe with me around.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Dashing.”

  Simon ground his teeth together nervously. “Mr. Dashing. I think I am a little confused. You want to go treasure hunting? Surely you don’t mean to wander aimlessly for a few measly trinkets.” Dragging the poor young lady along after you?

  “Trinkets? No.” Dick smiled smugly. “I know exactly where the treasure is.”

  The confidence in his voice made Mr. Todd anxious. “Do you?” Simon asked.

  “Of course!” He took another bite of pie. “I have a map. I just need you to carry it.”

  Simon summoned all of his wit to gather the questions he needed to ask in an attempt to stifle Mr. Dashing’s insufferable confidence. “Well, how do you know it will lead to treasure?” Dashing wagged a finger, which Simon thought to be quite condescending.

  “Because it leads to a dragon’s hoard.”

  Dragon? Simon hoped his ghostly state would keep his face from turning as white as he envisioned himself to be. Moving a hand to his teacup, he brought it to his mouth and sipped slowly, trying to appear as though he were merely contemplating Mr. Dashing’s words when in fact he was keeping himself from shaking.

  “A… dragon you say?” Dragons were not altogether rare, but they were certainly uncommon. Most of the older dragons were documented and cited on maps, given a wide berth in which to hunt. Mr. Todd could recall two in the world, but they were across the sea and much too far away. One inhabited an island to the west, the other a desert to the south. It was quite illegal to set foot within their borders. Dragons had to be respected, after all. They got awfully cranky when you tried to bother them, and they’d demand more tribute if you even dared to enter in their lands. Simon could only fathom what they’d do if you tried to steal their hoard.

  Younger dragons however, were simply enigmatic. No one knew how many of them there were, and rumours had it they could turn themselves into humans. Some educated folk surmised they did this to prevent dragon slayers from finding and demanding their hoards. Others thought it was just easier for them to live amongst everyone else until their powers reached their highest potential. Either way, there were no rules about young dragons that didn’t apply to all the other sentient creatures of the world. So if a wayfarer or two stumbled upon a hoard in unowned land, Simon supposed it was fair game for anyone to take it.

  In either case, Mr. Dashing had to be referring to a young dragon, lest he be labelled a delinquent.

  “How would you have a map? If there were treasure and a map, wouldn’t someone have moved or even taken the hoard by now?” Mr. Dashing was his name, not Mr. Smarty Trousers, Simon surmised.

  But Dick laughed. “Well I made it myself,” he said, digging into his coat to retrieve a rolled up piece of parchment. “I stumbled upon this place a little while ago, but it was sealed up tight. I could practically taste the gold!”

  “Sealed?” Mr. Todd raised an eyebrow.

  This time Miss Baxter responded. “Mr. Dashing says magic prevented him from entering. That’s why he needs my help. He thinks I can break the spell.”

  “Does he now?”

  Miss Baxter nodded, causing Mr. Todd to suddenly feel fraught with worry. She was such a delicate creature; surely she’d follow the jack-a-ninny right into the grave! Simon felt his face grow hot at the notion of Miss Baxter being eaten by an adolescent dragon. Mr. Dashing may tote around a few guns, but he wasn’t as smart as a clumsy shave in the morning.

  “Well,” Simon looked down at his pie, willing it to suddenly gain sentience and tell them all what folly this journey was. When it didn’t, he continued with his questioning. “Where is this dragon’s cave then?”

  Mr. Dashing, having expected to unfurl his map, did so with a flourish, pressing it to the porch table. It was a crudely drawn but comprehensible account of their country of Freland. Simon could easily pick out The Swells to the east, as well as Caper’s Creek and the Ebonguard. Their small town of Darlington was barely a spot on the western portion of the map. It sat inside the Great Plains like a pinhole in a square of parchment. Simon and Miss Baxter made their homes outside the town limits in the country, but further west they could see the Helvallyn Hills, emerald and spotted with trees. In fact, they were even now a shadow on the horizon if Simon wished to look hard enough.

  “Here.” Mr. Dashing leant forward, pointing a be-gloved hand to a rather sparse place on the map. It was just north of Ebonguard: the largest city in the surrounding area, and inside of the H
elvallyn Hills that curved to the south.

  “That seems an awfully long way away.” Simon pulled the map towards him, studying the lines and hastily drawn markers and labels. It certainly hadn’t been drawn to scale, unless one tree in Birdwood was half the size of the Ebonguard Cinderstone Ziggurat.

  “It is,” Dashing confirmed, scooping up the remainder of his pie to savor thoughtfully.

  Simon rolled up the parchment. “What I want to know is why you came all the way back here for recruiting. Surely there were other sorcerers close by that would have sufficed to break the spell. Why come here?” Simon would have returned of course, if it had meant he could travel alone with the lovely Miss Baxter, but Dick Dashing was recruiting him as well.

  “A fair question.” Dick’s unwavering confidence unsettled Mr. Todd. “The truth is I don’t quite trust any other magicians to take their fair share of gold. I may be a good shot, but magic is magic. Miss Baxter’s more honest than a mercenary with a bag full of money. I can trust her to take her fair share and no more. She’s also recommended you.” Dick took another puff of his cigar and tipped his chin upwards in an attempt to blow out smoke rings. Simon saw Miss Baxter smile when he did so successfully. “So,” he said again, looking back. “Here we are.”

  “It would be nice to have you come too, Mr. Todd. You’ve often told me how you’d like to travel again.”

  “Again? You’ve travelled before have you?” Dick asked.

  Damnation, how was he supposed to think on the fact Miss Baxter had appointed him her travelling companion of choice, when this rapscallion was asking so many damned questions! Simon reared back from the young lady’s gaze like a horse stung by an electric fence, before realizing where in fact he had travelled before.

  “Oh.” He looked down at the rolled up piece of map. Mr. Dashing had been halfway across the country and back again. The only place Mr. Todd had ever been to was…“Piper’s Toss.” He looked down, making sure the lapels on his attire were in place. Piper’s Toss was a small township a stone’s throw from Darlington. The stories held that a magical piper had visited Darlington to gather souls, and after luring its denizens away on a song, he stopped by the Wormtung River to toss the unwanteds away. It was a dive of a town, with brothels and dice houses, and a myriad of unsavory folk looking to milk the honest.