Book Crazy Friends: The Scribbler Guardian by Lucian Bane

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Title: The Scribbler Guardian

Author: Lucian Bane

Release Date: September 14, 2015

Genre: Fantasy Romance

Purchase Link: myBook.to/LBTSG

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:::SYNOPSIS:::

Jeramiah Poe isn’t just any character in the Realm of Fiction; he is Muse Master—Destiny Diviner—Mysterious Miskriat. Being of neither the Traditional Genre Provinces nor Independent, Poe enjoys an eternal lease on life, so long as his Scribbler keeps him out of publication.

Poe meets Kane, a seven-year-old boy from the Independent Horror Province, where he learns ancient codes are being broken and the horror that should be an act, is real.

But the evil clutching Octava is not new and Seven Arks have been sent to Earth to stop it.

Only something has gone wrong and Poe is commissioned as the 8th Ark of Octava to discover what has become of the Seven.

But his passage to Earth comes with revelations he's not prepared for. Not only does his Scribbler not know of his existence, he's a she that his human form seems allergic to.

Poe soon realizes that with each Ark he locates, his powers grow along with his feelings for the Scribbler. And the enemy will try and use both to gain control of the two realms.

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The fellow hurried forward, gripping Poe’s arm. “Do you even know who is on duty there?”

“I do.”

The man shook his head. “Then you know it’s not safe.”

“Of course it is.”

“With all due respect,” the man said quietly, “Dr. Science and Hop-A-Long Cassidy are both cruel beings, they—”

“What nerve,” Poe said. “The good Doctor and Hoppy happen to be my friends.”

The fellow stepped back as though treading carefully, staring intently at Poe. “But… I’ve heard bad things about any who attempt to obtain energy from The Bog with those two. Rumor has it they’re not too happy with the job.”

“And I don’t blame them!” Poe downed his tea in one shot and tossed his cup into the copper sink with a clank. ”Imagine living lives of fictional adventure for centuries and then being stuck on Bog duty in the Romance Province.” Poe didn’t hold back his growl of disgust. “They must be bored out of their minds.”

The man glanced at his wife and back at Poe, confused. “I… heard they sucked a man’s energy until he disappeared.”

“An exaggerated story. The man broke clear Bog protocol.”

“By not dancing fast enough?”

Poe shrugged with wide eyes. “Rules are made for a reason. And I know the Doc and Hoppy, they had good reason. Plus the man was a second class Miskriat.”

The man drew his head back. “Miskriats are people too.”

Anger flashed through Poe. “I never said they were not. But for logic’s sake and my patience, both of which you have bankrupt, you, lover boy, are a registered inhabitant of Octava, therefore under the protection of the realm’s laws. The Bog’s Guardians are not capable of harming you. Since second class Miskriats exist only in the minds of their Scribblers,” Poe reminded, fluttering his fingers at his temple, “they are not warranted by Octava’s laws.”

The gent spun and put his back to Poe as heated whispers erupted between the two. He finally faced him again. “Are you not Miskriat as well?”

Poe stiffened at the scent of trickery. “What does that matter to you?”

The woman answered this time. “We… wouldn’t want to put your life in danger.”

The lie sparked against his shields, angering him greatly. “I am Jeramiah Poe, madam. The Muse Rider. Use sorcery once more with me and I just may re-write your destiny to something more fitting.” A love bird or perhaps a lovely toad, maybe.

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The man’s strangled confession added a shot of anger to the brew of angst in Poe. “Were you?” He turned back to the task of tea preparations, pumping the arm on the mini-hand well. “Then I should suggest you go to that blather mouth for whatever it is you want from me!”

“Please,” the woman gasped. “We gave our word and—”

“It was Kane?” Poe mumbled, “I’d bet my Scribbler’s lineage on it.” He plonked the copper kettle onto the stove, wishing it were the little runt’s bottom. “Patron of the pulmonary carrying-on’s, that one.” Poe added a few cedar logs to the belly of his black iron stove. He’d deal with him at first light. Poe faced the couple who seemed taken with curiosity at his outdated kitchen appliances.

“Not everybody wants to indulge in the new gadgets of their Scribblers realm. My own Scribbler created me to love antiquation, simplicity, classicality. I happen to find more value in these things.”

“It’s a lovely home,” the woman hurried. “Very…”

“Simple,” the man helped when she fretted for an agreeable term.

“Fantastical, even,” she dared in a singsong voice. “Like a cute hobbit home.”

Poe turned and rolled his eyes, fetching cups from his simple cupboard as the two filled his kitchen with an odd cackling laugh.

“I suppose since you know where I live, then you also know everything else you shouldn’t about me.”

“We were told you could help,” the man said.

"And that you were good," the woman reminded. “That’s all, I give you my word on that.”

“Your word.” Poe set three tin cups on the counter, irked with her sorcery. Giving a compliment strictly to secure his submission to this ‘goodness’ didn’t help them one bit. “Do you have any idea at all about words? The power behind them?”

“Words?” she echoed, appearing worried. “I… know the power of the Scribbler’s words, yes.”

“So what value do your words have, madam, a mere creation that you are? Why should I feel remotely impressed with your word?”

She lowered her head like he’d taken a hammer to her self-esteem, filling Poe with a mix of odd frustration. “Your words have as much value as your Scribbler, woman.” Despite his efforts to calm down, Poe took the lower road for a change. “Why is it so difficult for Creations to understand that they are not mere Characters in a story, but replicas of their Creators—not only in image, but far beyond? Life and death succumb to the Scribbler’s will and that power indwells the creation if you but believe it.” Poe looked between the intent faces before him, both straining to compute—not to understand mind you, but to placate the terrible master from whom they sought favor, whom they had need.

Disgusted, Poe was ready to be rid of the pair, and the fear and drama that indwelled them. “I will help you.”

A moment of shock preceded the pair shooting up from their seats for a bouncing, dancing embrace. Poe couldn’t help but gawk at the touching fetish. Like the eyes and ears lacked ample function thereby requiring the third sense for comprehensive communication. “But there is a price,” Poe added, desperate to put an end to the strange energy molesting his aura.

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