Lemon Curry?
© 2025 by Walter Reimer

Bernie Phlute ©  EOCostello
Titles by  Major Matt Mason
Music by Ferde Grofé
Suits by ‘Rick’ of Altoona

Thumbnail art by  RockBaker

Part Twenty-eight.


Nothing moved in the crypt beneath the derelict house, and nothing in the cavern dared to make a sound. The Priestess prostrated herself beside Eduardo and the remaining minions, none of the chupacabras willing to risk destruction to look up at their Queen.

Sorena sat before them and seethed, having sensed the death of one of her small number of followers. The pain of his passing had communicated itself to her, and her mood was scarcely eased by the gardener’s message to her from El Peludo.

“You are being hunted, Sorena.”

She’d encountered hunters before, and their corpses were in lonely graves from one coast of Mixteca to the other. Despite his proven abilities, this ‘Furry One’ stood between her and her chosen prey, and he would fail as all the others had.

Her lips curled back from her fangs. “You,” and she pointed at Eduardo.

He flinched under that fierce regard. “Mistress.”

“You will return to the Ortiz house.”

He looked up at her with a terrified expression. “But, Mistress, he – he knows – “

“Silence,” and he shut his mouth hard enough to draw blood as one fang cut his lip. “He is overconfident, and it may happen that he will say something in your hearing.” She gestured. “Go, and do not return until you have information for me.”

“Yes, Mistress,” and Eduardo scrambled to his feet and ran.

“M-My Queen?” the Priestess ventured.

“Once we know their plans,” Sorena said, “we shall thwart them, I shall take the soul of Diana Ortiz, and my dread Lord Satan will rule with me by his side.”


***


Jacob Dorpf looked around the room, taking in the reactions as El Peludo recounted to the Ortiz Family what had happened to him at the gymnasium. The fur the luchador had been supposed to spar with, a whitetail buck, had been found unconscious in a closet but otherwise unharmed.

Enrique was holding Diana’s paws in his, both looking stricken, while Mr. and Mrs. Ortiz looked very disturbed by this turn of events.

His superior, Bernie Phlute, looked alternately skeptical and bored.

For his part, Dorpf had been trained to observe and have an open mind about what he’d seen. He had his notebook out and was trying to get down everything El Peludo was saying. It helped that the wrestler was speaking English out of deference to the two Minkerton’s agents.

“The enemy has minions,” El Peludo was saying, “that walk abroad under the sun.” His voice was grim as he added, “One of them is a spy here at your house.”

Professor Ortiz’s eyes widened in shock. “Who - ?”

“The gardener. But he is of no moment,” El Peludo said before the older goat could say anything. “His foul mistress is. Still, it is safe to assume that you and your daughter are being watched by day.”

“So what can we do?” Mrs. Ortiz asked, close to tears. Dorpf wrote the question down, underlining it. It was a very good question.

“Your daughter’s twenty-first birthday is tomorrow.”

“We should have sent her away!” Mrs. Ortiz said, an almost frantic note edging her voice. “Can we not do that now?”

El Peludo held up a paw. “It will not work, dear lady. The Queen’s mark is on her,” and he pointed toward Diana’s shoulder. “However, I have a plan.”

“Better be a good one,” Phlute remarked as he leaned against the wall.

“I think it is a plan that will meet with the approval of the esteemed Minkerton’s agent,” the luchador said confidently.

Dorpf paused in his notetaking to look around the room. The stork still looked skeptical; the family of goats and the daughter’s inamorata looked hopeful, and the tall, muscular wrestler exuded confidence. He had already demonstrated his confidence in overcoming his opponent earlier in the day, the Boston terrier reflected, so his manner was somewhat justified.

El Peludo looked at the Ortizes before his gaze took in the two Minkerton’s agents.

“I plan,” he said, “to have a party.”





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