Excerpt: From the Beat of Her Wings

“Oy, pip! Wotcher!” She stared uncomprehendingly at him for several seconds before walking up to meet him, slightly anxious. His greeting had made almost no sense to her. In fact, she looked around warily, unsure whether he was greeting her, or telling her to watch out for something. As she approached the two men, she noticed that the shorter one was watching her like a hawk watches a mouse. When she drew up close, she got a better look at the speaker. He was rather lively for being a dead man, and faintly handsome, though his cheeks were hollow and his eyes shadowed. He had a full head of black, tousled hair, and a somewhat hooked nose, though not exaggerated enough to be harsh. The silent one, who seemed to have no need to blink, ever, had a face that appeared to have been in its fair share of fights in its life. He was short, but built with enough muscles so that Gabrielle believed he could take on a lion with his bare hands and win. His disconcertingly fierce gaze made her fidget nervously with her hands. Before she could say a single word of introduction, if she had in fact plucked up the courage to speak, the tall man addressed her.
“Wha’s yer name?”
She cleared her throat, afraid to test her voice. “Gabrielle,” she answered, in a surprisingly calm voice. The men looked at one another then set their sights back on her, eyebrows cocked. The tall one spoke again.
“Yer not dead,” he said bluntly, accusingly. Gabrielle flushed.
“You don’t look dead yourself,” she answered evasively.
“Bullocks,” he said, mildly bashful. He waved a hand as if dismissing a compliment, smiling for the first time. “Oi’m dead, clear as day. You ain’t,” he said, his expression straightening. Then he gasped dramatically, leaning towards her.
“Yer cursed! Tha’s it!” He leaned back again with a half ominous look on his face. He seemed pleased by his diagnosis.
“So,” Gabrielle began hesitantly. “This is Hell, then? I haven’t suddenly gone mad?” Bizarrely, she almost sounded hopeful.
“Aye, yer barkin’ alrigh’, if yer wishin’ this is real. Unfortunately for you, ‘tis.” He leaned in toward her again, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.
“An’ yer stuck ‘ere, damned fer all eternity, doomed ta face torture the likes of which yeh’ve never dreamed. Prepare ta face the terrible wrath o’ the devil ‘imself fer eons to come, for yeh’ve no hope at all of escape!” His voice had steadily risen from its whisper until he broke into fits of mad cackles. She looked into the dead pan face of his companion.
“You’re shitting me,” she said, her voice small.
“O’ course Oi’m not. Now go rape Hitler,” he ordered her harshly. “E’s in need o’ a goo’ borkin’ o’ late.” At this, his companion finally smiled, and Gabrielle felt her unease melt a little.
“You’re scaring the girl, Scox. She’ll start taking you seriously if you keep it up.” His tone was brusque but kind, with mirth hidden in its inflections. Scox looked down at him in mock incredulity.
“Oi’m only puttin’ the fear o’ the devil in ‘er. Nothin’ wrong in tha’, Ethan.” Ethan’s grin broadened and he looked at her again, his sharp eyes boring into hers.
“Indeed,” He said simply. “How did you get here?” he asked, swiftly getting back on topic.