THE TESTIMONIAL OF P.T. LYFANTOD RSS



TWENTY FOUR

AN UNSATISFACTORY CONCLUSION           It was nearly sunrise by the time Lyfantod finally stumbled home.  He was not sure when he'd last slept, weary to the bone, and within his flat it was almost as cold as it was without.  He bolted the door, kicked off his boots, hung up his coat, tossed his keys on his desk, lit a fire in the hearth, and went to rummage in his closet.  Finding he did not in fact possess a red cloth, in a stroke of sleepy inspiration he went to his laundry basket instead and retrieved a pair of worn red socks.             Going to the window he flicked the latch and...

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TWENTY THREE

THE HAND DEALT           “I don’t understand,” Horse growled as Lyfantod dragged her down the stairs at a run, holding tightly to her sleeve so that she was forced to come along or be dragged.  “We killed him.  Bones is dead.  That ought to be the end of it!”           “We made a mistake, god damn it!”  Lyfantod nearly stumbled as they burst out of the stairwell at speed, skidded round the corner, and hurtled down the hallway to the front doors.  “We—”           The scene that confronted them when they reached the courtyard outside the dormitory quite literally stopped the detective in his tracks.  It took his ability to speak...

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TWENTY TWO

AMINUS BONES           By the time they approached the school fifteen long, painful minutes later, Flint had run out of energy for making off-color remarks, and instead had settled for a rhythmic huffing that alternated with his steps.  Lyfantod, who was in fair shape himself, could only sympathize.  The potion had returned much of his vitality.  Had healed his wounds, and washed his aches and pains away like a touch of the hand of God himself.  But for all that, Old Man Winter was still determined to beat him into shivering submission.  The snow blinded, melting on his face and in his eyes. Despite his newfound health, his clothes were still covered in his blood, freezing...

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TWENTY ONE

UNFINISHED BUSINESS           “Caird, is that—What the hell is going on?  Jesus Christ, your throat!  Oh my god.  Oh… Flint.”             Horse’s words, tumbling out as she realized, piece by horrible piece, what in fact was going on, washed over Lyfantod without reaching him.  His attention was held by the flickering blue flame that was now dancing around his killer’s head, providing the newly-arrived detectives with some much needed illumination of the grisly tableau.  And by the fact that several pints of his blood had leaked out into the snow.             “Who is he—why, that’s Lyfantod!  Caird!  Stand down!”              “Don’t be...

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TWENTY

WAYLAID           Lyfantod was collecting snow.  If he was forced to stand much longer out on the sidewalk outside of Eroteme, they would have to dig him out of a snowdrift.  At the moment, however he didn't have much say in the matter.  He was locked in a silent showdown, exchanging glower for glower, with his old refrigerator-shaped friend, who was once again in a shirt several sizes too small for his bulging chest.  He had exchanged his Russian ushanka hat for a knit cap with snowflakes woven into it, now nearly lost beneath their non-decorative brethren.  There were icicles on his eyelashes, there was meltwater on his cheeks, and still he loomed, arms crossed, between Lyfantod and...

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