Viper Venom

VIPER VENOM

~stories to chill the blood~

K. C. ABBOTT

First published in the United Kingdom by K C Abbott in 2015

Viper Venom

Copyright 2015, 2017 K C Abbott. All rights reserved

Second revised edition 2017

Extract from All Cats Are Grey

Copyright 2015, 2017 K C Abbott

Smashwords Edition

The right of K C Abbott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes, but please do encourage your friends to download their own copy. If you enjoyed this book, it would be great if you could leave a review for it at your favourite retailer. Thank you for your support.

You can find more information about the books and the Generation of Vipers world by visiting K C Abbott's website: kcabbott.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or to actual events, places or organisations is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design: jdsmith-design.com

Cover Image: aletsix/iStockPhoto.com

Interior formatting: K C Abbott

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

VIPER VENOM STORIES

Stone Quarry

Tiger, Tiger

Putting Down Roots

Irresistible Armpits and the Death of Deodorant

Bang to Rights

Birth of the Blues

ALL CATS ARE GREY

In the dark, all cats are grey

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

From K C Abbott

About K C Abbott

Connect with K C Abbott

DEDICATED to Casey's Beta readers

Thank you all

This writing lark would never work without you

Stone Quarry

Are you sleeping, elder sister?

There was a long, long silence. The question was repeated in the same low, sibilant voice. Elder sister, are you sleeping?

Again the long silence. The question was not repeated a third time.

When the reply eventually came, it was like the murmuring of the wind, so low it was hard to catch, so soft it was impossible to be sure it was there at all. Why do you rouse me from sleep, little sister?

The child is hungry, elder sister. The child must be fed.

There was a long hiss, as if breath were being expelled from between tightly clenched teeth. Or perhaps it was just the rising storm, forcing its way through the crevices of grey granite, demonstrating that nothing, however venerable, was proof against its subtle seeking.

~ ~ ~

Tim could barely hear the tour guide’s voice above the keening wind. He found himself wondering why on earth anyone would choose to do such a job, especially at this time of year. Or why any of the group had paid to come. It was freezing; and it would probably rain again soon. He could feel the heels of his boots sinking into the mud already. This trip was a mistake. He should have taken Toby to the zoo, instead.

Can you all hear me? The guide was shouting even more loudly now, waving her stick above her head to attract everyone’s attention.

Stupid question, Tim thought. Anyone who can’t hear, can’t hear her question, either. He shuffled a bit nearer the centre of the circle, nonetheless, pushing Toby forward in the shelter of his body.

I can’t see, Daddy, the boy complained. It had been a long day and he was really too young for this sort of outing. Definitely a mistake. No doubt there'd be hell to pay when Tim delivered Toby back to his mother this evening.

Daddy… Toby was starting to whine.

With a sigh of resignation, Tim lifted the boy up in his arms. He was surprisingly heavy for his age. He really had grown such a lot this past year. Tim had missed so much of Toby's life. Seeing him once or twice a month was not like being a real father. And –

The guide had already started her spiel. Because of the wind, only about half of it could be heard. "You are in a circle of… …granite stones, thought to date… …commonly called the Witches’ Dance. They were probably erected about…"

Toby started to wriggle. Mummy says witches only happen in fairy stories. And these don’t look like any of the witches in my books. These stones look just like the ones that Obelix carries about. Do you think he was here, Daddy?

Tim's heart sank. Back to Toby’s Asterix obsession again. That was the last thing they needed on their one day out together. Toby would go on talking about Asterix and Obelix from now until he fell asleep. Sshh! Tim said in a hoarse whisper. I can’t hear what the lady’s saying. If you listen, she may tell us if Obelix was here.

Toby quieted immediately. He was smiling expectantly.

The guide was droning on. …thought to be a place of religious significance in pagan times. The circle is incomplete, as you see, with thirteen large stones and one much smaller one…

Toby was getting edgy again. Probably because the guide’s language was too difficult for him. Why is one of the stones so little? Daddy, why –?

Sshh! I’m trying to listen. Toby, I'm going to put you down for a while. If you’re quiet, you’ll still be able to hear. I’ll explain it all later. Tim let Toby slither to the ground. He could feel the little body leaning against his side, stealing his warmth.

Through a lull in the wind, a deep male voice, American by the sound of it, asked a question from the front. What sort of pagan religion? What were the stones for?

The guide laughed in a rather sneering way. No one knows, sir. There are no records, of course. Just stories about strange happenings, handed down over the centuries. 'Feeding the stones', they called it. According to legend, the stones grew. She paused dramatically, obviously waiting for a reaction from her audience.

Gasps of horror duly followed. And low mutterings.

When the commotion died down a little, the guide continued, speaking rather more quickly than before. The wind might have dropped for now, but it was still bitterly cold. She was probably impatient to get back to the shelter of the bus. Tim was, too.

The standing stones, the dancing witches, are nine feet high. The single small stone, over there, is called the stone child. It is three feet high, exactly the length of my stick, as I shall demonstrate in a moment. We are told that, a hundred years ago, it was some nine inches shorter. She paused, before adding, with a forced laugh, But of course there is no independent proof of that. And no proof at all that any of the tales about lost children is true.

The American was making himself heard again. "Are you trying to tell us that children… He seemed to be at a loss for words to describe his revulsion. What kind of a place is this?"

The guide huddled herself deeper into her thick dufflecoat. I cannot tell you anything for certain, sir, she said, with heavy emphasis on the word sir. "My job is to give you the background about the Witches’ Dance, including the legends surrounding it. It is for you to make up your own mind. Now…" She turned her back on him and strode across to pose dramatically between the last of the standing stones and the stone child.

I am five feet three inches tall. You can see that the standing stone, the mother witch, so to speak, is almost twice my height. By contrast, the stone child is very small, a mere three feet. Let me demonstrate. She planted her three-foot stick alongside the stone child so that everyone could see that they were exactly the same height.

The stick seemed to have shrunk.

Tim felt the absence of warmth against his leg. He looked down, then all around. Toby! he gulped. Then, terrified, he began to bellow. Toby! Where are you? Toby!

The wind subsided to a satisfied sigh.

Back to Contents

Tiger, Tiger

Yes, I know Kylie's only four. But, honestly, I only left her for five minutes. Well, ten at the most. We'd run out of milk, you see, and she always has some before she goes to bed. She wouldn't sleep without it. So I had to go, didn't I?

Anyway, I knew something was up the moment I opened the door. It was the smell. It filled the place. I couldn't work out what it was, not at first. And then it came to me. It was like a mixture of wet wool and pee, with some other weird things that I couldn't put my finger on.

My first thought was to drop everything and rush in to see what she'd done. I couldn't imagine how she could have made such a stink all by herself. And in such a short time, too. I'd left her watching children's TV and it was still on. I could hear it. Normally she wouldn't have moved an inch.

In the living room, the stink was so strong, I nearly threw up. But Kylie was sitting happily there on the sofa, where I'd left her, as if nothing had happened. Nothing had, except that she'd had her Barbie doll in her lap when I left. Now, she was stroking a full-grown tiger. And the whole place reeked.

I didn't know what to do. I just sat down on the chair beside the TV. I didn't like to sit next to Kylie, what with the tiger. You never know with animals, do you? However friendly they look, you never know when they'll turn on you. My sister's cat did, once. Scratched all up my arm. Besides, the tiger took up all the space on the sofa, so there wasn't any room. It looked as if it was watching the TV but it couldn't have been, could it? I mean, tigers don't, do they?

Kylie didn't say anything at all. Well, she doesn't when she's watching her favourite programmes. She just sat there, stroking the tiger's head the way she strokes the hair of her Barbie doll. The tiger's eyes were like little slits. I suppose it was enjoying the stroking. It didn't purr though, which surprised me. I've never known a cat that didn't purr.

At least I had time to think what I was going to say when Kylie did eventually lose interest in the TV. She was going to ask me to let her keep it. I knew that. She'd been going on and on for weeks about having a cat of her own. One of her playgroup friends has one. I've explained over and over again that it's all right for Sharon, because she doesn't live in a sixth floor flat with no garden and a lift that only works once in a blue moon. I've told her a cat could die if it fell out of our window. But you know what four-year-olds are like. Explaining gets you absolutely nowhere. Whatever I say, she just whinges and cries and it usually ends up with me giving her a smack and sending her to bed. Well, what would you do? In any case, we can't keep a cat here. The landlord won't allow it.

That didn't help me decide what to say. Nor did the tiger. It just lay there, moulting hair all over my nice clean sofa. I wouldn't have minded so much if it'd been a clean tiger. You don't think about that when you see them on those wildlife programmes, do you? Oh, this one had the black and yellow stripes all right. And its head looked just like the one they used to use to advertise those petrol stations, whatever they were called. I wouldn't know. I have to use the bus. But its underneath was filthy – not white and fluffy like you'd expect, but yellow and grubby – you know, the sort of colour that nylon underwear goes when you've washed it too often. I sat there thinking that it could do with a good scrubbing.

And then Kylie's programme ended.

She didn't move at first. Then she just turned her head to look at me, ever so slowly. It was like a bit of slow motion on the TV. She opened her eyes wide, looking all innocent – she's not in the least, let me tell you; she's a right little madam – and started stroking its head again. Then she said, "Mummy, this is