Wilde Omens

  Wilde Omens

  S.E Babin

  Bree Lawrence

  Contents

  Foreword

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by S.E Babin

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  For all the smart girls. Shake the Heavens, and let the stars fall around you. You own this world.

  Foreword

  Welcome to the world of Penelope Wilde, a wise-cracking, brilliant girl, who was mostly normal until Sherlock Holmes showed up for tea…

  Chapter 1

  You never know the exact moment your life is going to change forever. For me it was a normal day. I’d just come home from work and plopped on the couch, mentally bemoaning my terrible day when a loud crack and a blinding flash of light ruined my pity party. When everything cleared, and I stopped myself from peeing my pants, a tall, handsome, albeit strangely dressed man stood in my living room, giving me the kind of stare that makes girls all over the world itch to break out their pepper spray.

  With a start and a screech of terror, I scrambled up and over the back of my couch, frantically looking for anything to defend myself with.

  “Penelope Wilde,” the man said in a cool, clipped British accent. “You look entirely too much like your mother.”

  I blinked. How the hell did this guy know my mother? “You are aware of the rules against breaking and entering?” I asked as I slowly poked my head above the top of the couch, wishing I could conjure up a knife.

  I was shaking, but my terror had gone down a few notches … mostly because murderers tended not to use theatrics when they planned to wear someone’s skin. I learned that, well not exactly that, during the last semester before I obtained my Criminal Justice degree. I would definitely think he wouldn’t resort to wasting expensive pyrotechnic technology with that crazy entrance to my house if he planned to murder me.

  He either wore a costume, or he was really into cosplay. Black tailored pants, shiny black shoes, a long trench coat that gaped open in the front exposing a shiny vest and a black and white striped button down shirt. On his vest hung a pocket watch with a silver chain encoded with strange symbols I’d never seen before. Of course, I only spoke English, but I thought I’d recognize Spanish…maybe even French if I ever heard it. This looked more like gobbledygook, but from the way he stroked it with his long, soot covered fingers, I’d wager it was important to him.

  His unruly dark hair waved around his head like a nimbus, enhancing the dangerous edge to his face. He scowled at me, his five o’clock shadow adding to the menacing look about him. But the oddest thing about him was the bizarre goggles perched atop his head, forcing his hair up into wild spikes. They were steampunk style, covered in silver metal and the same bizarre symbols he had on his watch, and were so large they protruded off of his head like one of those giant ant monsters you see in old, cheesy horror movies. Strangely enough, they looked just like the ones I’d seen last weekend when I attended the monthly Renaissance fair.

  The strange man gave me a look that made me feel about two feet tall. “As you witnessed yourself, there was no breaking, only entering.” He stared around the room, his gaze flicking from one item to the next as if he were cataloguing everything. I stared at him with a mix of fascination and horror and wondered if he was for real. I was still fighting the urge to run screaming from my home, but there was something about him that seemed familiar even though I knew I’d never seen this man in my entire life. Only this kept me rooted to the floor and engaged in the strange turn this conversation was taking.

  “Your home is quite the mish-mash of eclectic things. Do you require funds?”

  A benevolent trespasser. The world was full of wonders. “My home is just fine,” I responded with barely there patience. “Can I help you?”

  He turned his head back to me, the goggles on his head reminding me of an angry grasshopper. “Quite right you can. I am here because it is time for you to accept your birthright. Your mother has tried my patience over the years, refusing to divulge your whereabouts or anything about you other than your name. Which she lied about, by the way.” His lips curled in distaste. “After all, who would name their child Gertrude Drucilla Smith in this day and age? That woman can be absolutely dreadful sometimes.”

  If I had a hammer I would have hit him over the head with it for using too many words in his sentences. I sighed and stood all the way up, brushing the dirt off of my pants on the way. I stood there in a sort of horrified fascination watching this man watching me. I pretended to ponder his statement because I was too scared to offend someone who might be an escaped mental patient.

  “My birthright?” My mother was a petite Asian hippie and I’d never known my father. When I was a child I always fancied myself a Mafia brat, or something equally spectacular, but Mom was always tight-lipped about any possible biological father and tended to remain to herself. I grew up sheltered and without the benefit of a father figure. When I was younger it bothered me more, especially during holidays and school events where my friends would have huge, boisterous families out to support them. My mother cut a small, lonely figure at school functions and Christmas time, but I could never deny she’d always been there for me, even when sometimes I wished she wouldn’t have been. But as I stared at him I noticed something strange, a deep familiarity settling into my bones when I looked at him.

  Noticing my perusal, he offered me a shark’s smile and a single word. “Indeed.”

  My mother had lots of ‘splaining to do. For that matter, so did the world. I either had the world’s craziest loony toon sitting at my kitchen table overdoing the espresso, or I had a man renowned as one of the most brilliant and inventive sleuths…and who was supposedly long dead. Sherlock Holmes. In the flesh. And if that wasn’t crazy enough, this man claimed he was my father.

  Of course, it would be super cool to have someone like him as a daddy, but it would also be really not cool to have some mental illness running through the family gene pool. The odds of him being Sherlock were nil. I tended to believe in some fantastical things, especially with a mother who insisted on being called Moonchild, but this one took the cake. So as I sat there sipping my espresso I studied him. There was some resemblance there that interested me, but it could be one of those weird flukes. After all, some people looked like their dogs. Even if he was a major crazy bird, I’d rather resemble him than a toy poodle.

  “So this whole I am your father thing. Are you for real? Because you have to put yourself in my shoes and see what I see. There’s a crazily dressed man sitting at my table drinking espresso like it’s going out of style, something that will by the way probably cause you great gastrointesti
nal distress later, and he insists I’m the product of his loins.”

  Daddy Dearest raised one eyebrow over my green Nerd Life coffee mug. “Really, Penelope, you make it sound so sordid. The insult on my suit was entirely unnecessary, by the way. You Americans…all of you could use some lessons from the British.” He waved one of his hands. “Back to the point. Your mother and I met many years ago when she was working as an international spy.”

  I set my mug down on the table with a clack. “A what?” I’d always been highly entertained by crazy people, but this guy was making some bizarre accusations, and I was again wondering about my safety. My mother might not have been traditional, but if this were true, her secrets were deeper than I’d ever imagined. I wasn’t sure which upset me more, my supposed father in front of me after all these years or the fact that my mother had been lying straight to my face for my entire life.

  “Spy, dear. Your mother was quite talented.” His eyes took on a far-away reminiscing quality that made me want to scream.

  I texted mom to get over to the house pronto. I didn’t tell her why because, even with her hippie ways, she might have had me committed. But I knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t be able to control her curiosity.

  My mother, peace loving hippie and all around flower girl, had her hands wrapped around my supposed father’s neck screaming, “You sorry son of a bitch! I told you to never find her!”

  Instead of looking scared, Daddy dearest looked amused, even as he tried to wrest my mother’s fingers off. After a moment when I was growing concerned about where I would hide the body, my mother slumped, her long black hair swooping over her thin face. She released my father and sat down next to him on one of my chairs, her expression blank as if over the last few seconds she hadn’t tried to commit murder.

  I always knew my family was a little bit off, but when she smoothed down her peasant skirt, cleared her throat and offered to pour him a cup of tea, I was convinced they’d all gone mad.

  “Tea, Mom? Seriously?” I stared at her like she was an alien, but Holmes just grinned and nodded.

  “It’s lovely to see you, Maggie.” He straightened his scarf — cravat I think they called it these days — and leaned back in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee. He stared at my mother hungrily, but the only acknowledgment of his presence on her part was the two bright circles of color at the top of her cheeks.

  She stood and busied herself making her famous herbal blend of tea. Never mind we’d just finished our espressos. To my mother, tea cured all ills. It was like I wasn’t even in the room.

  “Mom?” I questioned.

  She shook her head once, stiff and unyielding. I sighed. “Both of you have some explaining to do.” Since she didn’t seem to be in immediate fear for my safety, I was beginning to think that some of this completely insane, implausible store was true. Except for the whole Sherlock and international spy thing. I had a good imagination, but I wasn’t ready for Rorschach blots and forcible syringe meds yet.

  Silence fell in the kitchen and we both watched as my mother pulled the wet tea bags out of our cups, tossed them in the sink, and set the mugs in front of us. A light, minty fragrance steamed up into my nose – lavender, mint and lemon balm, if I had it right. For anxiety and stress. Mom had nailed that one.

  She sat with us, her hands wrapped tightly around one of my good china mugs. Her dark deep-set brown eyes met mine and in their depths I saw regret paired with a spark of excitement. “There are lots of things I’ve never told you.”

  I snorted. “You think?”

  Her mouth thinned. “Don’t get smart, Penelope. I had reasons for keeping my secrets.” She waved a thin hand at the man sitting next to us. He waggled his brows and took a sip of his tea.

  “Yeah. It’s important to know about mental illness in the gene pool.” I was never going to let her live this one down. All those years of wondering who my father was and it was possible the truth was even more fantastical than my childhood mind could have ever conceived of.

  My mother gave a long suffering sigh. “There is no mental illness despite … appearances.” She rolled her eyes at my father. “However, there is stark genius and a little bit of madness. Madness as in taking insane risks and finding them exhilarating, nothing that would require meds. At least I hope.” She cut her eyes to him, and he shook his head once. The ever present grin stayed on his face as he stared at my mother.

  “Why are you here? Why now?” The pleading in her voice made me sad.

  “She is old enough to accept her birthright. I need … someone to carry on my work.” There was an apology in his eyes for her.

  My mother slammed her teacup down. I winced, unaccustomed to any show of anger from my petite mom. “Birthright?” she spat in disgust. “You want her to take the reins from you? All you will do is get her killed while you sit idly by playing mad scientist in your lab.”

  My heart stuttered. Okay, so she called him Holmes. Plenty of Holmes’ in the phone book. It didn’t mean he was that Holmes. Right? An involuntary tic started behind my right eye. Should I pinch myself to wake up from this completely whacked out dream?

  “Holmes?” I echoed. I laughed uncomfortably. “Can you believe he thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes? Hopefully he wasn’t crazy when you did the horizontal mambo, because that would hold an ick factor I’m not quite ready to accept yet.”

  Two serious gazes alighted on me. I swallowed, the tea sitting like a lump in my stomach. “Come on. You can’t expect me to believe you. Mom, I’ve put up with your hippie dippie ways for way too long, even accepted them, but I think this might be the time when you’ve stepped over the edge. Yes, he might be my father.” I noticed his eyes crinkling at the corner so I glared at him. “Might,” I reiterated with clenched teeth. “But there is no way on God’s green earth that he is the real Sherlock Holmes.”

  I knew what I was talking about. I once knew a person in college who fancied himself Thor, spoke in antiquated English and carried around a large hammer any time he thought he could get away with it. It took all kinds of personalities to make the world go ‘round. This person could be just one more joker too serious about his cosplay. I would almost rather it be that and wonder about my mother’s taste in men than any of the other craziness presented today.

  “Your suspicions about my origins are quite astute, Penelope. I, too, would be suspicious had someone came in and made outrageous claims about their person. However, my dear, I am quite assured that I am the real deal, as you Americans say.” He looked so earnest and believable sitting there, but his claims were wild and out of this world. Someone could look perfectly normal but be a raging psychotic inside. At minimum, he was delusional.

  I looked at my mother. She said nothing, her expression carefully blank. My brows knitted together and I stared at both of them. I could see what drew her to him, the strength of his jaw, the intelligence behind his eyes, even as I wasn’t even a little bit convinced he was the world’s most famous detective. I shook my head and pushed my chair back.

  “Penelope.” My mother’s voice was a harsh crack in the otherwise quiet kitchen. She met my gaze, anger burning in her eyes. “You will sit back down and listen to your father.”

  A slow burn of anger uncurled in my belly as I stared at the woman who’d lied to me for my entire life. Now she wanted me to listen? To some bizarrely dressed person, drinking tea and making wild claims in my kitchen? Granted, there was more than a passing resemblance, so the odds of him being my father were starting to look a little higher. But Sherlock Holmes? The statistical odds were miniscule.

  I thinned my lips and sat back down, my arms crossed across my chest, glaring at both of them.

  “You really are most suspicious, dear.” He stared, the swirls of gold in his electric green eyes churning with knowledge and something else I was afraid to name. “I suppose the only thing to do is prove it to you.”

  With a blurred movement that left me gasping, he clamped one strong hand over my
arm and, with the other, slapped a strange looking contraption onto it. Shaped somewhat like a watch, the burnished metal gleamed against the olive of my skin. Cogs turned on the face of the device, and I watched as they spun in all different directions, the motion making me slightly dizzy. A small screen at the bottom cycled through various four digit numbers until it settled on 1989 – one year before I was born. My heart lurched as I flung my gaze to his. Any hint of familiarity or friendliness evaporated. Instead, he was aloof, his hand still grasped tightly on my arm. The device stopped turning and beeping abruptly and warmed to my exact body temperature. Horrified, I reached over to remove it, but my father held my hand away as he watched it intently.

  “Penelope,” he said, brusquely. “Remain still as you can. This device hasn’t been fully tested for human use yet.”

  I squawked with outrage and watched the room begin to spin. I stilled and shut my eyes, my heart lurching up to my throat as I began to spin with it. The last sound was the jagged laughter of my father before I surrendered myself to the lopsided tilt the world had taken.

  I twirled the long piece of braid around my finger as I stared at my mother. Her back was turned to me as she addressed three men, all dressed in the same black suits. I wasn’t nervous, but my stomach still churned with an emotion I couldn’t define. I was excited, yet I knew something about this wasn’t normal.

  One of the men studied me curiously, a look of interest in his gaze. I wasn’t scared either, but for some unknown reason I knew this moment was going to change my life.

  My mother turned and strode over to me. I tore my gaze away from the man in the suit and lifted it to her.

  She crouched down and gripped both of my hands tightly in her own. “Penelope.” Her voice was grim and serious.

  I swallowed hard. “Yes, Mother?”