Murder Most Fowl – Part C #atozchallenge

For the A to Z challenge, I present Murder Most Fowl, an unedited serial story from the unpublished Cera Chronicles. Please excuse the grammar mistakes. This hasn’t been critiqued yet. If you’re just diving into this story, you may want to start with .

Cowboys surrounded us.

The girl aimed her weapon at the furry face of the badged man. Tiny copper gears whirred and cranked on the device. Steam whistled from a valve. The weapon shook in her hands. “Leave me alone, Bobby. I’m warnin’ you!” Her corset seams strained with each inhalation. “You’re unfairly branding me the—”

Bobby’s nostrils flared at the mention of branding.

She flinched. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

Bobby’s jaw worked, ruminating over the wretched remains of half-digested vegetable matter. The curled ends of his greasy mustache twitched with each slavering bite like a pinned rodent in its death throes. “Now Miss Molly, you don’t wanna be rilin’ up the boys. How ‘bout you put down that there ray-gun.”

Molly snorted. “Oh yeah? Make me!” Her finger twitched on the trigger. The tip of the weapon bobbed in the air, never holding a steady position. It dipped slightly, momentarily leveling with his waistband.

He cleared his throat and shuffled to the side.

The aim swayed again. Right toward my head.

I scooted to my left and bumped into a pair of legs. Criminy. How did I end up in the middle anyways?

“Who’s this?” Bobby asked, staring down at me. He readjusted his hat. I was impressed it stayed on his head, what with the pair of horns poking out from his skull. His maw opened, gracing me with an unwelcomed glimpse of stained teeth and the foul stench of regurgitated, decaying flora.

I flashed a smile and batted my eyelashes. “Don’t let me interrupt your little feud here. I’m just passing through.”

Molly’s gaze darted to me then back to Bobby. “I’m bettin’ she’s your real culprit.”

Culprit? Why that little— “I didn’t do it!” My hand bumped the fowl corpse of the feathery stalker lying next to me. “What didn’t I do?”

Bobby spat a slimy reddish-brown glob on the ground. It struck the dirt and splattered in a star-shaped pattern. He drummed his holstered gun. A hoof-like shell covered the back of his hand and all three fingers. “Well, Miss…”

“Cera,” I supplied.

“Well, Miss Cera. You’ve just been accused of murder.”

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