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Authors: John Booth
Carlotta and the Krius Scepter (Carlotta Series Book 1)
Carlotta & the Krius Scepter
(Book 1 in the Carlotta Series)
By
John Booth
A beautiful naked girl wakes up in a seedy hotel room with no memory of who she is.
She finds a note telling her that her name is Carlotta. A quick test proves it is in her handwriting. There is a letter with the note, but it isn’t for her.
Thus starts a dark fantasy, filled with violence, sex, vampires, werewolves, more sex, and more violence. Carlotta is to discover that she has been many things, but none of them human. She seems to be living a film noir movie. Unfortunately the danger is completely real
Carlotta has been sent to save a teenage boy, along the way she will discover that her real task is to save the world.
Carlotta & the Krius Scepter
(Book 1 in the Carlotta Series)
Copyright ©John Booth 2013.
Second electronic edition published by John Booth
Cover Design by Sessha Batto (
PubRight Manuscript Services
)
Edited by Diane Nelson (
PubRight Manuscript Services
)
John Booth asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Jalon
Jalia on the Road
Gally Delbar
Jalia in the North
Jalia and the Slavers
Jalia at Bay
Jalia Prevails
Tom & Laura Series
The Spellbinder
Scotland Hard
Revenge of the Brotherhood
Magic Series
House of Silver Magic
Sapphire Magic: Breaking Glass
Gold Magic: Terror in Mind
The Magic Series (Anthology)
Magic Limited Series
The Heist (Book One)
Standalone Fantasy
Andrew Hawks
London Gothic
Carlotta and the Krius Scepter
Shaddowdon
Horror
The Lost
The Inspector Monde Mysteries
Visit the author’s web page
Scrawls in the Dust
Index
I think it was the traffic that woke me. Horns blared, carrying the frustrations of their drivers into the hot sticky air. It was night time and there were no lights on in the room. Despite that, I could see clearly in the light flashing into the room from the edges of the cheap ugly roller-blinds covering the windows.
An ancient ceiling fan spun noisily above me. It generated more sound than air onto my bed. I lay naked on top of a cotton sheet. Sitting up, I discovered I was female. By that I don’t mean my breasts were pendulous or anything like that, in fact they were firm and petite, but they were big enough to attract my attention as I raised myself up into a sitting position. Up until that moment I couldn’t have told my sex if my life depended on it. I still didn’t know who I was. My mind was curiously blank.
There were light switches by the side of the bed and I flipped the nearest of them. I expected the bedside-light to come on, but a bulb in the centre of the ceiling began to glow. It was a low energy bulb and I believe those things work by not working, if you get my drift. My thoughts were darting all over the place. I didn’t know that I was a girl, but I remembered my opinions on light bulbs, that and the need for lighting so I could see the true color of things.
I got up and walked to the nearest window. Pulling the filthy cord of the blind and letting go sent the plastic sheet flying up to clatter annoyingly as the roll continue to spin far beyond need. I was accosted by the light of flashing signs and an unexpected increase in traffic noise.
The window had been cracked open a few inches at the bottom to let in exhaust soiled air, and I stared out in incomprehension through the dirty glass to the cityscape beyond. Bright signs flashed out their wares below me. I guessed the room must be at least three stories from the ground. The signs offered sex or alcohol in one manner or another. Elegant skyscrapers dominated the far horizon, many of their floors lit in defiance of the night and global warming. I supposed I must be in one of the less salubrious districts. From the words on the signs this could be anywhere where English was spoken, but I strongly suspected I was in the
USA
.
It occurred to me that standing at the window naked might attract the wrong kind of attention so I stepped back deeper into the room. The energy saving bulb had decided to take on the characteristics of an electric light and the room bathed in its soft white glow. I looked back towards the bed and saw a digital clock reading 9:47. In the evening, I presumed.
There was a full-length mirror fixed to the door of a wardrobe. I moved to view my body in it. It appeared I was young and blonde, natural blonde unless I went to the trouble to die the collar and cuffs to match. My hair was almost white, matching my pale complexion. It was cut in a pageboy style that suited my rounded face. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on me, but my ribs didn’t show. I felt unreasonably pleased at how good I looked. And without any makeup that I could see.
I moved closer and bared my teeth at my image in a cross between a snarl and a smile. My teeth were even and white, though I thought they looked wrong in some manner I couldn’t pin down. My eyes looked older than my body, as though the image knew far more than anyone had a right to know. It was disconcerting.
Stepping back I turned partly around and examined the shape of my backside. There wasn’t a spot or blemish anywhere on my body, despite the fact that I looked like a teenager. I flushed in the voyeurism of the moment and might have been diverted to play with my body further if I hadn’t seen the interesting little pile of goodies on the dressing table.
A key with a big white plastic fob held down a pad of notepaper. Under the pad was an envelope.
I picked up the key and examined it.
427 The Metrow Hotel
stared back at me from the fob in engraved black lettering. Who in their right mind would call a hotel
The Metrow
? No wonder the place was so run down. Decent customers would give it a miss based on its name alone.
I picked up the notepad. The writing on it was elegant and familiar.
‘Your name is Carlotta. Ring the number below and ask man who answers it to come to you. The letter is for him. Do not open it.’
Carlotta? Wasn’t that a Spanish name? I didn’t feel like a Carlotta and unless I was an albino I didn’t have the coloring to carry it off. However, I knew I trusted the person who had written the note, though I couldn’t have explained why.
On impulse I tore the note from the pad and took the ballpoint on the table. I copied the words on the note and compared the handwriting. I was right. I could trust the person who wrote the note, because it had certainly been me.
I picked up the envelope. From the weight of it there was only a sheet or two of paper inside. The envelope cried out its quality. Made of heavyweight cream paper with a strong texture, it was probably watermarked. I sniffed at it, but there was no scent. On the front were the words
Rex King
. It might have been my handwriting, but it was difficult to say as it was spelled out in capital letters.
The most interesting thing about the letter was on its back. Bound with a silk ribbon that ran right round it and held in place with sealing wax, a large shape had been embossed in the wax. Over an inch in diameter, it showed the head and shoulders of a bird. Beyond that it wasn’t an eagle or a vulture, I couldn’t have told you what bird it represented. Something told me that the mystery of who I was might be revealed in that seal.
One thing was for certain. There was no way I could get into the letter without Rex King knowing I’d opened it. I used a foul word in my appreciation of my earlier self. That girl certainly knew how to frustrate her successor.
There was a television mounted on the wall. However, if there was a remote control in the room I couldn’t find it. The television had a single button so I pressed it and waited. The screen flared to life along with the loud sounds of heavy gasping. It took only a moment to discover it was set to a porn channel. I hit the button as fast as I could and, as the screen went black, sat back on the bed in shock.
Did I like that kind of thing? Judging by my continued hyperventilating I didn’t think I did, but the images replayed continually in my mind as if burnt in there and I couldn’t deny the stirrings I felt.
To distract myself I considered my situation. How could I have such a brilliant memory and not remember my own name? To make sure I didn’t simply have a porn related memory, I brought up the image of the note. I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw it in my head as clear as a photograph. The idea of having a perfect visual memory only for heaving flesh was not one that sat well with me.
With nothing to be gained from further procrastination, I picked up the hotel phone. A plastic wedge on the table informed me I had to dial a 9 to get an outside line. Halfway through dialing the number the fact that I was naked percolated through my mind and I put the phone down. Clothes became a priority, though being naked hadn’t bothered me at all until I thought of visitors.
There was a set of clothes in a drawer, neatly folded and if the sniff test is any guide, not yet worn. Tee-shirt and jeans over bra and panties made a new—well, newer—woman out of me. Like the trainers under the dressing table, they fit me like a glove.
“Rex King,” a gruff American accented male said after picking up the phone on the third ring.
“I have a letter for you.” It sounded immensely stupid as I said it, but what else was I supposed to say?
“Mail it to me.”
“Wait!” I was worried he’d put the phone down.
There was a long enough pause to make me wonder whether he was still listening.
“I ain’t got all day, lady.”
Collect your thoughts, Carlotta
, I instructed myself, though that damned name still seemed wrong, as though I wasn’t thinking it right. I was sure I was more of a Jane or Susan type of person.
“I woke up in a hotel room and I don’t know who I am. There were instructions on a note telling me to ring you and I’ve got a letter with your name on it.”
The pause was even longer.
“Yeah, right.”
He didn’t believe me. Not that I would have believed me either.
“The letter has a wax seal and there’s the shape of a bird embedded in the wax.”
The voice suddenly became instantly businesslike. “Do you know where you are?”
“The room key says 427 Metro hotel. Metro spelled with a W at the end.”
“Got it. Fourth floor, Room 27. Don’t answer the door to anyone but me.”
There was a click and the line went dead. I put the phone down and waited. How the hell was I supposed to know if it was him knocking on the door? It wasn’t as though I knew the guy. Anybody could claim to be Rex King, though that was almost as stupid a name as Metrow when I thought about it. I mean, who calls their kid
King King
, because Rex is Latin for King.
As I waited, it occurred to me that they might be the same kind of parents who call their pale-faced white haired kid, Carlotta. That wasn’t a pleasant thought either.