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The van Helsing Legacy: We Shall Not Sleep - 11

December, 1919
Mrs Harker welcomed us into her home with cups of strong, bitter coffee and some cold chicken sandwiches. Uncle Joe was already there, perched precariously on the edge of a steamer trunk that served the purpose of a sitting room table. The rest of the trunk was strewn with bits and bobs from Mrs Harker’s own kit, and the floor around was strewn with the papers that the bits and bobs must have displaced.
Three years ago, the house had been regimentally tidy, everything in its place, nothing out of order. But then her husband, Jonathan, came home from the front in a box barely big enough to be a coffin for a cat, and overnight, the stacks of newsprint, correspondence, and miscellanea began to grow. Everyone had been worried, at first, about the sudden change in her habits, but she seemed more comfortable living in a pile of paper. I had my suspicions. A tidy house was a reminder. The clutter concealed the empty spaces where her hu
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The van Helsing Legacy: We Shall Not Sleep - 10

Spring, 1914

Green shuddered at the touch of skin to skin, the boy’s fingers curled around his throat. Within the span of a breath, his pupils dilated, his face reddened, and his hand reached up reflexively to grasp the boy’s wrist. It was only reflex, though, not panic. The boy’s arm shook with effort, not with tension; his grip did not tighten. Instead, his thumb travelled over the angle of the doctor’s jaw and across his lips. Green’s eyes went blank and glassy, and he groaned, hunching forward.
Owen sucked in a breath as though to curse, lunged toward the bed, seized the collar of Green’s pyjamas, and jerked him backward. The doctor’s slippered feet slid on the tiles, and he went sprawling straight into Hannibal. All three men went down in a tangle.
And by the time he had managed to right himself, Hannibal could feel it.
They all could.
The terrible magnetis
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The van Helsing Legacy: We Shall Not Sleep - 9

Spring, 1914

Green arrived in a flurry of hideously chequered pyjamas, closely followed by the Chancellor and four Wardens armed with American Springfield rifles. The bell attached to the wire, naturally, had no way of specifying the nature of the emergency.
‘Whoa!’ Hannibal roared, tottering into the line of fire, his arms outstretched. ‘Whoa, lads, put ‘em up!’
The Wardens, narrow-eyed, hesitated a moment before putting ‘em up.
During those instants of hesitation, Green had knocked the Chancellor out of the way and ducked around Hannibal to survey his patient. He tilted his head and reached reflexively for the boy’s wrist, but stopped at the last moment, glancing at Hannibal.
‘Pretty bad,’ he said. ‘How long since apnoea set in?’
‘Bad,’ Hannibal agreed. ‘About three minutes. I wasn’t in the room when he stopped b
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The van Helsing Legacy: We Shall Not Sleep - 8

December, 1919

Naturally, having won the argument, I spent much of that night agonising over it. What if I was being foolish? Should I tear that page out of my notebook and throw it away? Would I know if I was being a silly girl? I was fairly certain that I had never been infatuated before, so how could I tell? The butterflies disturbing my sleep belonged to my familiar anxiety, which always got worse in the middle of the night. I had no idea why anyone would ever consider butterflies in the stomach a pleasant thing.
It wasn’t too late to light a little fire and burn that address.
But then, would Uncle Joe have expressed the same concern if I had been a boy, telling him about the strange Roumanian girl I had met in a churchyard? Would it have been dangerous then? It might still have been out of character, but would it have worried him so?
Quincey was also acting out of character. He had put
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No Cage for a Crow full cover by QuiEstInLiteris No Cage for a Crow full cover :iconquiestinliteris:QuiEstInLiteris 3 5
The van Helsing Legacy: We Shall Not Sleep - 7

Spring, 1914

The monster had been silent for going on two weeks. Hannibal could not tell whether it was deep in thought or deep in shock, and that made him nervous. But then, the boy was technically still human. For all his uncanny power and overflowing evil, his flawless body still seemed to work just about like everyone else’s, and he had come terribly close to death by dehydration. That, following a harrowing experience among the demons, might simply have been enough to drive the boy down into himself, too deep for speech.
He recovered, somewhat. First, they lashed him to the cot in the cell, but Green declared furiously that he could not be expected to treat anybody, even a monster, under conditions like those, and they moved him to the infirmary. Sedation proved unnecessary. He had broken quite a lot of his own bones, hurling himself against the door, and did not remain conscious long when they shifted him from the cot to a
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I have lost the gift of tongues,
or perhaps I never knew how to speak at all.
In dreams, I have seen the tower crumbling
and felt my throat closed against my fellow humans,
my voice crumbling, too,
never to be heard again.
:iconquiestinliteris:QuiEstInLiteris 19 3
I'm not much of a visual artist. by QuiEstInLiteris I'm not much of a visual artist. :iconquiestinliteris:QuiEstInLiteris 7 3
The van Helsing Legacy: We Shall Not Sleep - 6

December, 1919

The house was in a furore. We could hear it from several houses away, and Mr Apostol’s steps faltered.
‘That can’t be good,’ he commented.
I stopped to listen.
The main voice I heard was Clare’s, though I could not make out the words. Many women combined pitch with volume when trying to make themselves heard, and their voices became shrill. Clare’s did not. What she neglected in pitch, she made up in even still greater volume, and her tirade broke over us from a hundred-yard distance in the inexorable bass rumble of an approaching train. That was not the sound of her grief. The woman was out for somebody’s head.
It was not the time to be introducing strangers into the house.
‘All I can think is that Quincey’s come back without an adequate excuse, and his wife is giving him what-for.’
‘I should come back later.’
‘Come back here? Heavens, no! It’s not
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Psalmody 7 2017
Death holds no sting for the dead;
the blind do not fear the dark,
nor does silence weigh heavy on the deaf.
My pain is a fragile thing,
flimsy and foundless.
I have been told to be not anxious
about any little thing ---
the Lord is my shield.
But, God, I feel death near,
and sometimes I am alone
in the dark
and the silence,
and I fear.
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:iconquiestinliteris:QuiEstInLiteris 10 14
Psalmody 6 2017
As red the blood that washes clean my sins,
and white the water flowing through my hands,
so let each word I scriven crimson be,
each word I utter gleam like fallen snow.
Oh, Lord, take up my pen and grasp my tongue, 
and let no speech or scrawl of mine spread hate,
but closer draw humanity to love.
Shall white and scarlet in my soul entwine,
my purity and passion mimic Thine.
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:iconquiestinliteris:QuiEstInLiteris 4 1
Psalmody 5 2017
Fifty-nine beads, wood and glass.
The words pass
over and under one another,
weaving a familiar song.
And I remember all the years
held safe between one Mother
and the other.
Flesh and spirit wove a song
of fifty-nine beads.
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Psalmody 4 2017
Come, Spirit.
Breathe, Spirit.
The universe is seldom kind,
stealing as often as it gives.
Life ebbs and flows like the tide,
and sometimes, I feel like the shore,
worn away inch by inch,
year by year.
But the Spirit moves like wind,
directing the waves, and there must be a purpose.
Looking back, a pattern emerges,
each event pouring into the next,
and I discover,
that every joy has a distant root in pain.
I am a lustrous pearl, growing bright
from my wounds.
Come, Spirit.
Breathe, Spirit.
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Psalmody 3 2017
Send me forward, Lord, with open eyes;
blind faith shuffles, stumbles, falls.
Let me see You in the earth, the sea, the sky,
the faces all around me, every beating heart.
Let me learn You from the brushstrokes
Your creation left behind.
Let me seek you in the atoms and the waves,
the fingerprints in the cosmic clay,
the things that change and the immutable.
Let me seek and search and someday find.
If I can see, then I will run, shuffling no more.
I will believe like a child,
whose favorite word is 'Why?'
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Psalmody 2 2017
I am to love my neighbour as myself,
to offer my humanity and help.
So says the Lord my God, who shaped my soul.
Yet, 'Hate your body!' cries the frenzied world,
and bids me look with horror on the face
my Father sculpted with His loving hands.
What love can neighbours hope for in a place
where love of self has faithlessly been banned?
The world may do its worst, may rage and rail;
I'll love myself and thee till strength should fail.
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Psalmody 1 2017
Today is ashes - all men die; 
to dust we will return.
Our time here passes swiftly by,
and there is much to learn.
So in these solemn days take part - 
be silent in yourself.
In stretching hands to other hearts,
we find our truest wealth.
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:iconquiestinliteris:QuiEstInLiteris 6 4

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John at 3:16
Dear Jesus Christ,
I went to bed at 3:16 last night and started thinking about John—John who pissed away every paycheck he ever made and only fucked virgins, John who beat up a woman's husband and spent a Christmas in jail, John who shot himself on the front porch of his mother's house. I don't think anyone shed a tear except her. I heard she shed many tears as she cleaned up the mess.
I thought about when I first met him. It was at church. He and I were both eight. He sat next to me and we stared at that stained glass image of you in your white robe with your outstretched, loving arms, and he leaned into me and asked, "Do you believe in Jesus?"
"Of course," I said. "Don't you?"
He didn't answer. But it was Communion that day and he ate your body and drank your blood just like everyone else, and I thought he had to believe in you because you were inside of him.
I asked him once, Jesus Christ, I asked him if he believed in you and he said, "I want to. But everyone says I have
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^ See that Graham? That is also me. My contribution to this set was The Siren, which got some pretty decent traction here on DA before I put it out. :3


MR Graham
Artist | Professional | Literature
United States
USA Today bestselling author M.R. Graham is a native Texan who traces strong cultural roots back to Scotland, Poland, England, and Germany. A mild-mannered Latin teacher during the day, Graham transforms at night into a raging Holmesian loremaster and rabid novelist.
Though passionate about all scholarship and academia, Graham's training and true love lies with anthropology, particularly the archaeological branch.
Also, steampunk and vampires.……



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LadyLincoln Featured By Owner May 31, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Happya2 by Alimera

I hope you have a beautiful day, wonderful soul. :heart:
DAGAIZM Featured By Owner May 31, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy Birthday!
DeeryDeerth Featured By Owner May 31, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy birthday, and may your new year of life be even more beautiful than the last~
HugQueen Featured By Owner Apr 29, 2018   Writer
CyanDietRoo Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2017  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for the llama!
Melalina Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2017  Professional General Artist
Won't you try to keep me in mind when you publish the next (4th) installment of "No Cage for a Crow". I've trued to sign up for the automatic notification, but I wasn't successful.

I'm really enjoying the story.
3Days2Go Featured By Owner Edited Jul 18, 2017  Professional General Artist
+favlove A big thanks --from fellow Texans --for adding He First Saw It in the Hallway to your favourites collection!  Glad you like it!
QuiEstInLiteris Featured By Owner Jul 19, 2017  Professional Writer
Hello, fellow Texans! <3 You're most welcome. :)
nightshade-keyblade Featured By Owner May 31, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
:iconhappybirthdaysignplz: :iconballoonsplz:
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