Free Dead Surround - The Julia Poe Vampire Chronicles by Celis T. Rono Page A

side by side. He squeezed some lemon on top of the nicely browning fish and covered them with a handful of dill. The fisherman had quite an array of potted herbs scattered about the cabin.
    The smell made her eyes water, and her empty belly began speaking in tongues. There was nothing Maclemar could do to force her out of there. To occupy her mind she decided to harass the cook.
    “Are you Irish? Or English?” she pursued once more.
    “Nope and nope,” he said while moving the potatoes around with a wooden spatula.
    “Well?”
    “Hmm? Well what?”
    “What are you? You’re not American. Your accent’s a little off.”
    “That’s nice of you to notice, but I’ve met plenty of Americans with more varied accents.” He turned his head to give her a meaningful look. No matter where she went she seemed to get a civics lecture of some sort. He was correct, though. Her grandfather had a slight accent, and he was an American. “If you must know, I’m Welsh. From Wales.”
    “Oh. Where’s that?” Poe asked, self-conscious about her ignorance in geography and her tendency to 68

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    generalize when it came to touchy personal questions.
    “That’s part of the UK. The 4th slice they hardly talk about. It’s west of England.”
    “Would there happen to be mines in Wales?”
    “Yes, there are. I’m afraid we’re known for that.
    But let me assure you that my country is magnificent with unforgettable landscape and people. ”
    “Yeah? Well can you name me some world renowned Welsh people then?”
    “Right,” he said. He pulled at the beard that was there no more while pondering the girl’s question. “There’s T.E. Lawrence.”
    “Dunno him.”
    “He’s Lawrence from Lawrence of Arabia .”
    She nodded. “I saw the movie. Extremely long but good. Who else?”
    “What about Dylan Thomas?”
    “What about him?”
    The fisherman expelled a heavy breath. “He was just one of the greatest poets that ever lived.”
    Poe shrugged her shoulders.
    “Bloody Americans,” he mumbled under his breath. “Pissing on heaven under their feet.”
    “What did you say?”
    “I said, how about Richard Burton?”
    “Oh I know him,” Poe said. “I’ve seen sixteen movies with him in it. Go ahead. Ask me about movies and movie stars ’cause chances are I’ve seen most everything they ever made. Including their early smut stuff.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
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    “Nothing. Never mind.” Poe waved his question away. She wasn’t very discerning with movies. She watched anything she could get ahold of. Anything .
    “Well I thought you sounded a little like the cast of Trainspotting ,” she changed the subject as Name-the-Welsh was going nowhere. She perused his jaw which looked almost greenish from emerging stubble.
    “You wouldn’t be wrong there, either. My parents immigrated to Glasgow when I was twelve.
    They were both professors at the University. Then for a time I lived with my grandparents in London so the accent’s a tad screwed.”
    “Um, yeah. So what were you doing in America when the world got poisoned?”
    “I was getting my Doctorate in American Literature.”
    “So that’s why all the books,” she said, waving her hand at the shelves. “I hardly see any Shakespeare or Dickens in your collection.”
    “The British could be a bit snobbish about literature,” Maclemar said, wiping his hand with a rag. “But I’ll tell you something. The most sincere, most poignant novels I have ever read are those penned by American writers. Less bullshit and fluff.
    Give me Steinbeck, Hemingway, and Vonnegut anytime.” His eyes shone with the joy of defending his course of study.
    “Well I read a couple of English stories that made me cry. They were so good.”
    “Oh? What were they?”
    “ Silas Marner and Goodbye, Mr. Chips ,” Poe offered with a lump in her throat. She had read them because they were two of the thinnest books in her parents’