Pandora Boxed Set
Publication date: August 5th 2014
Genres: Paranormal
Publication date: August 5th 2014
Genres: Paranormal
*TWENTY COMPLETE FULL-LENGTH NOVELS AND NOVELLAS FOR $0.99!*
*NO CLIFFHANGERS!*
Do you dare open the box?
Whether you love paranormal in the form of romance, suspense, mystery, horror, or fantasy, this box set will have something to entice your preternatural sensibilities. Supernaturally thrilling and engaging, this box set has it all: ghosts, vampires, mind-readers, shape-shifters, demons, faeries, werewolves, and more.
For a limited time, you can enjoy books from today’s New York Times, USA Today, Amazon and Barnes & Noble bestselling authors and many more. We have everything from titles that are slated for the big screen to stories from Pulitzer Prize and Bram Stoker Award Nominees! When purchased separately, these books cost over $50! But they are your’s today for less than $1.
Professionally formatted, no cliffhangers, and no short stories. Every selection in this rare, limited edition paranormal box set are full-length novels and novellas! A few are “First in Series,” but we carefully selected only those which can still be enjoyed as a standalone!
Riley J Ford, New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author: INTO YOU
Rebecca Hamilton, Amazon Best-Selling and Film-Optioned Novelist: HER SWEETEST DOWNFALL
Apryl Baker, Amazon Best-Selling and Film-Optioned Novelist: THE AWAKENING
Carole Lanham, Amazon Best-Selling Author and Bram Stoker Award Nominee: CLEOPATRA’S NEEDLE
Thomas Sullivan, Pulitzer Prize Nominee: THE WATER WOLF
Rainy Kaye, Amazon Best-Selling Author: SUMMONED
Laura Howard, Amazon Best-Selling Author: THE FORGOTTEN ONES
Noree Cosper, B.R.A.G. Medallion Honoree: A PRESCRIPTION FOR DELIRIUM
Louise Caiola, Amazon Best-Selling Author: WHAT TRULY KNOWS
Kelley Anne Blount, Amazon Best-Selling Author: SHADE
Susan Stec, Amazon Best-Selling Author: DEAD GIRLS NEVER SHUT UP
Christi Goddard, Amazon Best-Selling Author: FOUR IN THE MORNING
Steven Katriel, Amazon Best-Selling Author: THE PORTRAIT OF ALATIEL SALAZAR
Heather Kenealy, winner of MTV’s “Stan Lee presents the Seekers” contest and Cinescape’s Short Story Contest: THE TRAITORS’ TRILOGY
Peter Dawes, Blogger Book Fair Reader’s Choice Award winner: EYES OF THE SEER
DelSheree Gladden, Amazon Best-Selling Author: INVISIBLE
with…
Angela Fristoe: LIE TO ME
Conner Kressley: THE BREAKER’S CODE
Samantha LaFantasie: MADE TO FORGET
Rachel Walter: TRUE CONNECTION
Save over $50! This set is only available at this price for a limited time, so order your copy before it’s gone!
SHADE
by Kelly Anne
Blount
Blood dripped
down my forehead and blurred my vision. I swallowed hard as I wiped it out of
my eyes and on to my tattered dress. Trying to control my breathing, I focused
on the dark alley head of me. I knew he was out there, but I didn’t know where.
The hair stood
up on the back of my neck as I pressed my body against a cool brick wall. How
did this go so wrong? A door slamming caused my heart to take off like a
cheetah chasing a gazelle. I crouched down and frantically looked for a
makeshift weapon. Finally, my hands came across a broken metal pipe. I picked
it up and clutched it to my chest.
With my
fingers trembling, I took a step into the deserted alleyway. Trying to stay
close to the wall, I sprinted as quietly as possible. A mixture of blood and
tears dripped down my forehead as the pavement pounded under my feet. Every
inch of my being wanted to scream, but I held it in. Just make it out of this
alley! Then you can scream!
A deep
rumbling voice echoed off the walls and sent chills through my core, “You can
run, but I’ll always find you, Abriana.”
I couldn’t
tell which direction it originated from and I didn’t stop to find out. Instead,
I propelled my legs forward faster than I thought humanly possible. I chanted a
one-word mantra the entire time. Survive. Survive. Survive!
A cool breeze
whipped between the buildings and sent shivers down my damp neck. I could see a
street in front of me. It was late, but a few people were still out and driving
around.
My chest ached
and my lungs felt like they were about to burst into flames at any moment. I
sucked in as much air as they would hold and pushed my body’s limits.
You’re almost
there! Just a few more feet!
Suddenly, I
felt fingernails dig into my shoulder and pull my body backward. The change in
momentum caused me to fall flat on my back, knocking the air out of my lungs in
the process.
A metallic
taste in my mouth and an ache in the back of my head were the last things I
remembered before everything went black…
***
I awoke to a
strange noise followed by, “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
I tried to
open my eyes, but panicked when I saw nothing but darkness. Goosebumps
instantly covered my arms. Why can’t I see? Where am I? I wiggled back and
forth, bumping into a low ceiling and carpeted walls.
“You shouldn’t
have run away from me,” came the nefarious voice belonging to the man in the
dark alleyway. He gave a wicked laugh. “You know who I am and you know what I
look like. The blindfold is so you don’t know where we’re going.”
My lips began
to tremble and my eyes filled with tears, but I forced them to stay at bay.
Struggling, I tried to bring my hands to my face, but couldn’t. My wrists
burned as a rope rubbed against my skin.
He let out
another laugh that left me chilled to the core. “I can’t risk you trying to run
away again, now, can I?”
Fear quaked
through my body and a cold sinking feeling spread through my core. “Why are you
doing this to me?”
The corners of
his lips turned up into a wicked smile. “Because I love you.”
INVISIBLE
by DelSheree
Gladden
Without
warning, catching my breath seems impossible. I don’t know if I can handle the
thought that someone might actively be trying to hurt Mason. Before I can stop
myself, I feel tears begin sliding down my cheeks. I’m not the only one who
feels them. Mason reaches up and touches my face, seeming startled when he
realizes I am crying. Not that I can blame him. I’m about as much of a crier as
he is.
“Oh, Ollie,”
he says softly. His strong, but gentle arms easily pull me out from behind him
and nestle me against his body. I curl against him as I try to shut out the
fear that is quickly swallowing me up.
“Mason, I
can’t bear the thought of losing you,” I whisper against his chest.
His arms press me against him so tightly there is no space left between us. “I’ve already lost one family. I won’t lose you, too.”
His arms press me against him so tightly there is no space left between us. “I’ve already lost one family. I won’t lose you, too.”
The night
quiets as we lay in each other’s arms. Slowly, Mason’s breathing calms. As he
relaxes, my own fears begin to calm as well. They don’t disappear, but they
come down to a manageable enough level that I can think and ask the question
lingering in both of our minds.
“Mason, what
do we do now?”
He sighs. His
fingers stroke my hair softly. “I don’t know. I’m not sure how to get more
information out of Robin without telling her the truth.”
“We can’t tell
her the truth. We have no idea who she’s really involved with. It’s too big of
a risk.”
“I know, but
we have to stay close to her, too. If she is a threat, we can’t be blind to
it.”
I know he’s
right, but I don’t like to think about Mason being so close to someone who
could potentially hurt him. But what choice do we have? I look up at Mason and
find him already staring down at me with a look of concern. Something about the
moment makes my heart lurch. It takes me a few seconds to gather my thoughts.
“Mason, we’ll
figure this out,” I promise.
As his fingers
brush against my cheek, that strange sensation flashes again, but I am too
anxious to pay it much attention.
“Out of
everything Robin told us today, do you know what hurt the most?” Mason asks,
surprising me by his change in topic. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Robin
said something like sometimes it’s hard to remember ‘I wasn’t human,’ that I
was sent here to be raised by Caretakers. Do you realize what that means? Not
only am I not human, my family isn’t even my real family. All of the sudden,
I’ve lost another family, one I never knew, maybe one that didn’t even want me
to begin with.”
“We’ll find
answers, Mason.”
I know it’s
not much as far as comfort goes, but I don’t know what else to say. I have no
idea why anyone would give up someone as wonderful as Mason. If his biological
parents didn’t want him, their stupidity was our gain. I can’t imagine my life
without Mason.
I have no idea
what time it is, but weariness begins to creep over me. My eyes are starting to
close when Mason asks one last question.
“Do you think
Robin is right about me not being human?”
A yawn
stretches my jaw before I can answer. “I don’t know. Maybe. You are invisible.”
“Does that
bother you?” he asks quietly.
My shrug is
more of a twitch as sleeps tries to steal me away. “Why would it? I love you no
matter where you came from.”
HER SWEETEST
DOWNFALL
by Rebecca
Hamilton
Night crept
over Damascus. After treating the rapidly warming serpent mark with more Cruor
blood, Ophelia spun toward the open door. Ethan sat between the frame, his
strong shoulders resting back, his face turned to the field where a small red fox
burrowed in the dirt. The night breeze wisped through his hair. She set the
blankets on the end of the bed and walked over.
“Is it far?”
she asked.
“No.” He
cleared his throat but didn’t look up at her. “Sorry. For a human, it’s very
far, but it won’t be for us.”
Ophelia
bunched her fingers together in front of her stomach. “Same as we got ‘ere
then?”
“Yes.”
She stepped
around, outside, and kneeled in the grass across from him, resting her hands in
her lap. “Ethan, if something is wrong . . . ”
“I’d tell
you,” he replied, lifting his gaze from a long piece of grass he’d been
slipping between his fingers. Moonlight paled his tan complexion and darkened
the shade of his jaw, making him appear more defeated than he had hours ago.
“The Cruor I
mentioned earlier is in the Americas. She’s not expecting us.”
“But I
thought—”
“Please trust
me.” He stood and dusted off his pants, then leaned his shoulder against the
doorjamb.
She tried for
a smile and busied herself attempting to prop up a wildflower that was wilting
among the yellow grass.
When she
looked up, Ethan’s expression was gentle. His gaze moved from the small flower
to her eyes. There was a brief moment where she wondered if he, like Lady
Karina, found her bright, ice-blue eyes alarming. But his express was soft, and
her fears quickly melted. He walked behind her, crouched down, and covered her
hand with his, his fingertips touching the flower. It revived before her very
eyes, and Ophelia leaned her head against Ethan’s shoulder as she stared at the
flower in awe.
“Beautiful,”
she whispered, wishing she had been destined to be one of the Ankou—to be one
of the elementals who revived life and put an end to evil, rather than bring
death.
She told him
as much.
He sat back,
and she turned around to face him. He was standing now, holding his hand out to
her.
“Come with
me,” he said.
He took her
hand and they fell through darkness just as they had when he’d taken her to the
cabin. When she could see again, her stomach suddenly jolted. She hunched
forward, heaving, but this time she did not vomit. She held her midsection
until the feeling passed, then dried the moisture from her eyes.
Ethan smoothed his hand across her shoulder blades. “Traveling will get easier with time. By your third or fourth time you shouldn’t feel anything.”
Ethan smoothed his hand across her shoulder blades. “Traveling will get easier with time. By your third or fourth time you shouldn’t feel anything.”
“Why does this
keep happening?” she demanded. She could hardly think straight.
“When we
travel this way, we are in the in-between. You are suspended from such things
as time and space and then thrust immediately back into it. Your system is
forced to catch up instantly on arrival. If not for the magic the Ankou are
granted, it could kill you.”
Ophelia
sighed, nodding. “Where are we?”
Ethan turned
her toward a small house and pressed his fingers to his lips.
He led her along the outer walls of the house until they reached a window. Inside, a man and a woman held each other, crying. Ophelia peered around the room, trying to make sense of what she was searching for. She found her answer on the floor. A young man sat, collapsed to his knees, covered in blood.
He led her along the outer walls of the house until they reached a window. Inside, a man and a woman held each other, crying. Ophelia peered around the room, trying to make sense of what she was searching for. She found her answer on the floor. A young man sat, collapsed to his knees, covered in blood.
“What
‘appened?” Ophelia whispered.
“The young man
just watched his comrades kill his sister.” Ethan’s voice was tight and his
tone clipped. “He was unable to act to save her. He’s returned home to tell
their parents.”
Ophelia backed
away, shaking her head. When Ethan approached, she pounded her fist against his
chest. “Why would ye show me such a thing?”
Ethan didn’t move, even as Ophelia tried once again to push him away. “The young girl who lost her life was a dual-breed. She was only killed because of what she is, and for no greater reason. This . . . this is what we’re fighting for. It is not that I want you in harm’s way, or that I wish for you to become a creature you detest. If I could do this for you, protect you from your calling, I would. But I cannot let my feelings for you sway our responsibility. I am confident you are capable, that you can do this to save the innocents in this world.”
Ethan didn’t move, even as Ophelia tried once again to push him away. “The young girl who lost her life was a dual-breed. She was only killed because of what she is, and for no greater reason. This . . . this is what we’re fighting for. It is not that I want you in harm’s way, or that I wish for you to become a creature you detest. If I could do this for you, protect you from your calling, I would. But I cannot let my feelings for you sway our responsibility. I am confident you are capable, that you can do this to save the innocents in this world.”
Though Ophelia
tried, she could not summon a response. She covered her mouth with hand, her
entire body trembling. Could she live with herself, knowing all this, if she
didn’t try to help?
LIE TO ME
by Angela
Fristoe
Vivian was
such a drama queen. What did Nathan ever see in her? I rolled my eyes, then
slid the note over to Tonya. Her soaring eyebrows made me wish I hadn’t. No way
would she believe me about the first note now. My best chance against her
questioning was a quick escape after class, before she started the
interrogation.
Luck, however,
deserted me. The bell rang and Tonya grabbed my bag, holding it hostage behind
her as she stood with the table between us. That was the problem with having a
best friend; they always knew what you were going to do. She was almost as bad,
or good depending on your point of view, as Chloe sometimes, though I’d never
say that to Chloe. Doing that would just open Chloe’s vision floodgates and I’d
be constantly bombarded with every detail of every soon to be minute of my
life.
I refused to
struggle for my bag. Tonya would only take it as confirmation that I was hiding
something from her. Instead, I screwed my face up in confusion and hoped she’d
buy it.
“What’s
wrong?” I sank back further in my chair, tipping it up on its back legs again
as Mrs. Schaeffer went out the door, following the rest of the students. Owen
and Bianca stopped behind Tonya, waiting, Owen looking mildly disinterested,
while Bianca was completely confused.
“What are you
hiding?” Tonya asked, her head tilting to the side.
“Noth-”
“Cut the crap,
Phoebs. Vivian is pissed and you’ve been looking guilty all class, well at
least the part where you were awake.” Her eyes narrowed, and she crossed her
arms over her chest, ignoring my bag as it swung around and bumped her hip.
There was no way to get out of this, but if I told her now it’d be all over
campus within an hour.
“Fine, but not
at school. I’ll tell you when you come over tomorrow.”
“I can’t
tomorrow.” Her face shuttered and she turned around, tossing my bag to me in a
quick motion. I caught it as it slammed into my chest.
“Why? I
thought we were gonna go Christmas shopping? You already ditched me last
weekend.” There were only six days left to shop and I needed to get, well,
everything, and Tonya was one of those people that managed to find the best
things the instant she walked into a store. She shrugged and twisted a strand
of her straightened hair.
“I’ve gotta go
see my mom.”
Liar. It
whispered through me, my stomach churning to the point I thought I’d puke.
There was a moment when my brain tried to make sense of what I was hearing,
what I was feeling, then it came again. Liar.
“Liar.” The
word slipped out, unrestrained in its harshness, and almost instantly, my
stomach settled. Until I saw the expression on Tonya’s face.
“What did you
call me?” Her back stiffened and her head reared back. Shit. Owen and Bianca
went bug-eyed behind her. Tonya’s lips pursed and her eyes narrowed, darkening
from brown to black.
“I...I...” My
voice faded, unsure if I should call her on it again, or try and fib my way out
of it. This wasn’t the first time I’d called her a liar and she’d always
laughed it off before. Her reaction and the flush coloring the soft brown of
her cheeks told me I’d actually caught her.
“Screw you,”
she snapped as I stood there with my mouth moving like a gasping fish. “I don’t
need to tell you every move I make, and I don’t need my best friend calling me
a liar.” She spun, shoved Owen out of her way, and took off out of the room,
slamming the door behind her.
My bag thudded
to the floor. Owen and Bianca stared at me, the question in their faces a
reflection I was sure of my own. What the hell had just happened?
THE WATER WOLF
by Thomas
Sullivan
Ireland, Connemara - 1974
You couldn’t
tell the rain from the mist. That kind of day, where the greens were black and
shades of gray defined everything else between the village and the cliff which
drew the land up like a bowsprit – Ireland sailing ever westward. And like a
dreary ship’s crew coming forward to drop anchor and make fast, a handful of villagers
accompanied the horse-drawn hearse toward the churchyard.
It was called
a churchyard, but no one from Darrig could tell you why. It was rumored there
had once been a church near the pond and that through the first half of the
19th century villagers had worshipped there until it was struck by lightning.
One or two of the oldest families in the district held to a darker version,
saying it had been burned down, and whisperers might add fanciful stories of a
pagan altar on the cliff nearby. The McCabes owned the land, however – that was
clear enough – and there had always been a graveyard there just as there had
always been McCabes. But here was the last of them, Brone himself, about to be
laid to rest. The gravediggers had joked about how deep to dig, lest they
strike heathen things said to underlie the original site, and that Brone McCabe
himself was closer to pagans than to the Pope.
“He’ll be the
Watcher now,” said Laughlin O’Brien the young peat cutter, and he moved closer
to the mourner in front of him to cover the fact that he had been thinking out
loud.
The churchyard
Watcher. Even the children of west County Galway knew what it meant to be the
last corpse interred in a cemetery. Someone had to guard the graves. And hadn’t
Laughlin’s own father, Fahey, been buried the same day as Dolan’s sister, and
hadn’t the two funeral processions broken into a run and a gallop to reach the
churchyard gates first so as not to be the last one buried, and hadn’t he lost?
So Laughlin’s father became the restless spirit who watched over the others and
couldn’t lie down proper until another body was interred. But now Brone was
dead and coming to his grave . . .
The gravesite
tarp was hauled back and the priest changed registers from bass to tenor as the
water ran off the mound of dirt into the yawning hole. No one was sad at
Brone’s passing. No one was happy to be at his funeral. It went like a speeded
up film. The Holy Water sprinkled on the coffin as it was lowered roughly to
the bottom of the grave was absurdly redundant. Not only was it raining, Brone
had drowned. It was as if God and nature and the villagers of Darrig wanted to
make sure he wouldn’t draw another breath.
His body had
floated up against the pylon, or “the Pillar of Thiollaney Merriu,” as the oldest
inhabitants of the village still called it. He had drowned in the pond somehow,
though no one could imagine why he would have gone in unless it was to save his
wife Una, who was missing. They had dragged the pond but could not locate a
second body. Some thought so ill of Brone McCabe as to suggest that he had
murdered Una and drowned himself in remorse. Except it was hard to imagine
blustery Brone remorseful over anything, besides which, as far as anyone could
tell, he had been as fanatically devoted to his wife as he was disdainful of
everyone else in Connemara.
Still, Una
McCabe was missing. Not a sign of her in the house (the local gardai had
searched thoroughly), no blood, no overturned furniture. His Nibs, the old
hound, did not scratch at a loose floorboard or dig at freshly turned earth. It
disappointed more than a few. So the stalwarts of Darrig performed their duty
to the deceased in cursory fashion, while the county culled through statutes
and mulled over what to do with the property should Una McCabe also be declared
dead.
She seemed
almost to be an unnecessary detail, because few in Darrig had even seen her up
close, let alone spoken to her, and when she did speak it wasn’t in their
dialect. A startlingly beautiful woman, she must have been two decades younger
than Brone who was forty-one. Where had she come from? In this village whose
customs and celebrations were no less hallowed than its rituals and rites,
there had been no courtship, no wedding. Brone had gone away and come back with
a bride. “Dublin,” he grunted in the pub when pressed about her origins. Brone
had a rugged masculinity and modest means, nothing to suggest a fatal potency
over women. Especially this one.
It was the mourners at the foot of the grave who saw her first. A moving shape in the mist from the direction of the pond, becoming then a human figure, then a female figure – very female – because she hadn’t a stitch of clothing on to hide her comely form. If they hadn’t seen Una McCabe up close before, they got to see her now. Naked to her navel, no matter which direction your eyes started from. Rivulets running off her firm breasts, down her tapered thighs. In the achromatic light she looked almost luminous, her ash blond hair nebulous, her sea-green eyes electric out of dark hollows. And something else that the women noticed for a certainty, and that the men afterward agreed must be true. She was pregnant and beginning to show.
It was the mourners at the foot of the grave who saw her first. A moving shape in the mist from the direction of the pond, becoming then a human figure, then a female figure – very female – because she hadn’t a stitch of clothing on to hide her comely form. If they hadn’t seen Una McCabe up close before, they got to see her now. Naked to her navel, no matter which direction your eyes started from. Rivulets running off her firm breasts, down her tapered thighs. In the achromatic light she looked almost luminous, her ash blond hair nebulous, her sea-green eyes electric out of dark hollows. And something else that the women noticed for a certainty, and that the men afterward agreed must be true. She was pregnant and beginning to show.
Scota O’Neill
threw an elbow into her husband Dolan, meaning for him to take off his jacket
and cover the bare naked thing, but somewhat dumbfoundedly Dolan merely jerked
an umbrella over the nude woman’s head as she continued to the lip of the
grave.
“He’s not
dead,” Una said in an even voice.
WHAT TRULY
KNOWS
by Louise
Caiola
Mama said that
eighteen years ago I was plucked from her belly with the Magical Knowing right
there waiting for me. She said it was like somehow I knew there’d been a cord
wound tight as an ole’ clock spring round my neck, keeping me from my rightful
first breath of life. And yet, I wasn’t bothering with fussing over it, ‘cause
just as soon as those doctors wrestled me free, the story goes, I looked Mama
square in the eye and winked. Much as it sounded like a whole mess of hogwash,
Mama swore on the Holy Book that it was true. I reckon she oughta know for
real. Though some said Mama did her fair share of fibbing, when it came to the
Magical Knowing, Mama didn’t lie.
It was on
account of this that I had a horrible feeling someone was due to be dying on
Skinners Bridge that night. With the Magical Knowing a person could sense
beginnings and endings real clear, the way some folks could tell if it was
planning to rain by the way their joints started up with aching. I was hoping
it wouldn’t be so. Really hoping.
But then there
was that moon that hung over our heads, all crimson-colored and with a mean
look on its face. If that wasn’t a deadly moon I don’t know what was.
Locals in
Madison County, Alabama say that Skinners had seen its equal split of love and
tragedies. Seeing as how it was situated at the butt end of nothing more than
some silly little lake, a chunk of trees, and practically no light, kids for
years saw fit to visit and do the things nature led ‘em to. Mama says most
girls around these parts had babies brewing in their britches from the time
they could toddle across the kitchen floor. Lots of those young’uns were shot
from their daddy’s lustful limbs right down under those wide oak, only yards
from the mouth of the bridge.
As for the
tragic part, well that was a tale for unfolding like a linen hanky in a dainty
lady’s lap. This was how the Magical Knowing grew into more than Mama or I had
ever imagined it could – in a calamity that intended to be much, much more.
On the night
in question, Ridley Fisher and I were set to meet Jayden Collins at Skinners to
square matters. Jayden had been all bowed up over the very notion that Ridley,
who’d arrived in my universe all the way from South Africa if you can imagine
that, was fixing to steal my heart and all that went along with it. Not that
Jayden and I were a thing. At best we were the very closest a boy and girl
could be without ever having locked lips. Our houses were so near you could lie
down in between them and have your head in his garden, your toes in mine.
Suppose that was one of the reasons Jayden felt like he had some ownership of
me, since we’d been next-door neighbors for six years and counting.
Didn’t matter
none that when it came to my affection, it wasn’t a lick of Jayden’s concern.
Didn’t matter none that Jayden could have practically had me a hundred times
over if he really tried. Which he never had up till then, and thusly my heart
was officially up for the taking.
THE FORGOTTEN
ONES
by Laura
Howard
We’re going to
the beach tomorrow,” Nicole said.
“Have fun,” I
mumbled.
She wiped her
lips with a napkin and narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re coming.” I opened my
mouth to argue, but she held a slender finger up at me and pursed her lips.
“It’s the first Saturday you’ve had off in months. School’s over, at least for
the summer. You’re coming.”
I sighed and
looked up at the pattern of our umbrella. “You really know how to ruin a
perfectly good sundae.”
Her eyes shot
daggers at me. “We’ll have a great time, Al.” Her expression changed as she
seemed to change tactics. Her green eyes widened and her lip stuck out just the
tiniest bit.
Cranky Nicole
was a challenge, but pouting Nicole was impossible.
“Fine,” I
sighed. “We’re going to the beach.” I looked at my sundae, which had made me so
happy a minute earlier and a thought came to me. She hadn’t said anyone else
was coming, but Nicole and her boyfriend Jeff were practically inseparable.
“Wait, who else is going?”
Nicole
grinned, clearly smelling her victory. “The usual crew: Jeff, Rachel, Sean
and”—her eyebrows inched up—“Ethan.”
I nodded,
trying to breathe evenly. I hated the way my pulse spiked at just the mention
of his name. Handsome, cocky Ethan. His smile had the power to break down every
one of my defenses. But, I didn’t have space in my life for that. I had a plan—to
focus on taking care of my mom. My grandparents had done it by themselves for
long enough. I needed to find a way to help, to unburden them. That was my
priority. But Ethan…he was so hard to resist sometimes.
TRAITOR’S
TRILOGY
by Heather
Kenealy
The three had been here for longer than they themselves knew.
There was no ceiling to this round room, or
if there was it was so high that it could not be seen. The walls were pocked
with blackened windows that filled with demons now and then that watched the
trio and laughed and mocked. Gnarled creatures with eyes like coal and twisting
horns ringing their heads like sham crowns. Each of these men saw them
differently, and each man heard their taunting cries in their own language.
But they didn't know this. The language of
the damned is always the same.
Screams echoed through the room, sometimes.
The tormented souls outside suffered differently than the three who waited in
here. They were Betrayers, afforded a special place in the Eternal Confinement,
for was their Jailer not a Betrayer, Himself? Did He not rise against one who
trusted Him, and was He not cast down for it
There was a bonfire in the middle of the room
and the three reclined around it on hard marble benches stained black with the
soot that did not touch these damned souls.
They were stained enough already.
Loki Shapeshifter, Judas Iscariot and Mordred
Le Fey.
Loki was long and thin, fair in the manner of
his people. His hair was red as the flames that surrounded him and there was a
fine network of scars around his red and green eyes from where the serpent
dripped its poison on his face in the time before Ragnarok. His lips too were
scarred where once Brokk the Dwarf sewed them shut as punishment for an insult.
His legs and arms were shapely but the ankles and wrists bore red never-healing
burns from where he broke his chains when the time came for him to end the
world.
Sometimes in this place, he became a woman,
who batted flirtatious eyes at the others with mocking laughter on her lips.
Sometimes, he was a horse, who nickered softly and paced the room, restlessly.
Sometimes he was a bird, who flew upwards, looking for the way out of this
room. He could never maintain these forms for long, that power had been limited
here in this place, restricted by being reduced to myth. It was how he was
chained here, though there were no chains to be seen. Loki was the only one to
ever sleep here but when he did he woke up in the middle of a nightmare,
flailing at the serpent that was no longer there, feeling the poison's burn on
his face, calling for Sigyn, his good and godly wife, who had gone into exile
with him.
She was at rest now, now that Ragnarok has
come, rewarded for her devotion to an unworthy man who never said a nice word
to her. She was at peace but Loki never would be.
He was forever dressed in only a white fur
trimmed tunic and high-laced sandals that he had worn for eternity, a gold
torque about his throat the only ornament. He was here in this place longer
than the others, longer than this place was even known of. Once upon a time,
this place was ruled by his little daughter Hel, but no more. She died at the
World's End and this place was given to another.
Judas was next to him, Judas dark and
bearded, reddish highlights in his deep brown hair. He did not look at the
others. He did not speak to the others. He lay on his back, his
brown-almost-black eyes seeking the Heaven that he would never see, the mark of
the rope that throttled the life from him burning red on the tan skin. Now and
then, his lips moved in prayer, but always they stopped again, as if he had
forgotten the words.
Sometimes despair came upon him and he wept,
beat his chest, pulled his hair and tore the pure white robe he wore. Always
the rips were mended and the scratches his nails left in his cheeks were
healed. The angry welt on his throat would burst and the black blood dried
quickly in the heat of this place, but that would never heal. It was the mark
of his death.
"Why?" Judas sometimes murmured.
"Why me? My Lord, forgive me."
Mordred, who called himself Le Fey, was the
last. He was a Pendragon by birth, though Arthur never recognized it. The youth
who should've been a prince didn't acknowledge it either. He looked like
Arthur, though, strawberry-blond and handsome, blue eyes that reflected only
pain and heartache. He was small and delicate, barely twenty years of age when
he died, well formed except for the one shoulder that raised itself the tiniest
bit higher than the other.
Well that, and, the hidden deformity in his
chest.
Beneath the white and gold velvet tunic that
he wore, there was a gaping hole. His heart had been there, but Arthur's
rejection had ripped it from him. He had plunged his pike through that empty
space, and Mordred's hatred had given him the strength to pull himself up the
length of the shaft to kill his murderer.
That hole had never healed.
He did not look at the others, either. Why
should he? He did not trust people. People turned on him. People judged him.
People betrayed him. What good would it do to place his faith in these two?
After all, they were betrayers already. That's why they were here.
There was only the confinement, the mockery,
and the waiting.
So, forever, the three waited. They didn't
know what they waited for. They didn't know how long they would wait.
But, they waited.
For there was nothing else for them to do.
Myth, faith and legend joined in their evil, joined in their betrayal, awaiting
redemption—maybe---awaiting an end--certainly.
THE BREAKER’S
CODE
by Conner
Kressley
I stared at myself; half in shock, half in horror. A wedding dress, an honest to God wedding dress. It fit perfectly, hugging all the right places, and flattering all the wrong ones. I almost looked like a woman. I almost looked beautiful.
“You forgot the veil.” A man’s voice sounded
from behind me. I spun, the fabric of my gown ruffling, to find Allister Leeman
leaning against the doorway. He smiled a wide, dark smile. The raven at his
throat seemed to caw and move; its wings flapping against his Adam’s apple. His
dark hair was slicked back, and a toothpick peeked out from between his lips.
His eyes cut into me. A delicate white veil danced around in his fingers, and
he was dressed in a tuxedo that, sickeningly enough, seemed designed to match
my dress.
“Where are my friends?” I asked, trying to
steady my voice.
“You don’t have any friends.” He plucked the
toothpick from his mouth. “If you mean the people that were captured with you;
they’re fine.”
“And my mother?”
“She’s fine too,” he answered, and started to
make his way toward me.
I flinched away. “I want to see them. I want you to let them go. I’m here. I did what you asked.”
I flinched away. “I want to see them. I want you to let them go. I’m here. I did what you asked.”
“You did part of it,” he thumped his
toothpick onto the floor in front of him. “I’ll let them go when you do the
rest.”
He reached for me, and ran his disgusting
hand through my hair. I shivered and slapped it away. “Though, I don’t know why
you’re so attached to them,” he grinned. “They don’t care about you, my
darling. Not really.”
“They risked their lives for me,” I snorted.
“They don’t even know you. To them, you’re
something to kill, something to change. Even your mother-Or, more
appropriately, the woman who calls herself your mother, has only the most
conditional of loves for you. None of them accept you for what you are. They
would never try to understand you, or embrace the truth of who you are. That’s
why they’re here, Cresta Karr. Not for you; it was never for you. They’re here
because they can’t stand the idea that you are more than them; that we’re more
than them. I’m the only one who understands you, Cresta. Because I know what it
is to be called for something so monumental. I share your pain and your
exhilaration in the same way that I will soon share your bed and your life,
because it is mine as well.”
“We’re not sharing anything!” I couldn’t help
it. I slapped his stupid face. I probably shouldn’t have done it. After all, he
did have everyone I cared about in the entire world in his clutches. But he was
just so smug, pushing all my buttons. “What the hell is the matter with you
anyway?” I shouted. “What kind of lunatic actually wants the world to end?”
He put a hand up to his quickly reddening
face. “The kind that knows it has to.” A broad dangerous smile crept across his
face. His eyes glowed menacingly.
“They haven’t told you all of it, have they?”
He did a little shuffle with his feet, almost like he couldn’t wait for what
came next. “This isn’t about the way the world ends. It’s about what comes
next. The world has ended a hundred times before; with ice ages, and floods,
and meteors that have purged this planet of everything it could find. But each
time, the world has come out of it for the better, stronger, and more evolved.”
There it was, that word, evolved.
“Just as human replaced the dinosaurs, we
will replace humans. It’s the way of the world. The strong always replace the
weak, my darling.” He held the veil out toward me. “And you are the one who
will set it all in motion.”
I slapped it away too. “I would never hurt
anybody.”
“Just as the wave would never hurt the
mountain. Still, the mountain erodes. “He picked the veil up, folded it, and put
it in his pocket. “They paint you as an antichrist, but you are a messiah.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m not the Bloodmoon.
I’m not anything. Look, I’m not going to kill anybody. So, I can’t be the
Bloodmoon. The sun will be up soon, and then everybody will know. So, just give
me my mom and my friends, and let me go.”
“Still, with these friends, “he muttered.
“Come here. Let me show you something.”
THE AWAKENING
by Apryl Baker
Prelude
Alexandria Nicolette Reed
August 3, 1996 – August 25, 2012
Loving Daughter and Sister
Mental Patient,
Shy, Quiet, Reserved
Weird, Insane, and Invisible
May You Rest In Peace
And Never Return
You Will Not Be Remembered
I remembered
that day in the park. I remembered writing the eulogy into my journal, tearing
it out and shredding it. The pieces floated away on the wind like dandelion
wisps. I remembered how I’d felt that day—excited, scared, determined.
Looking back now, I realize how innocent I
had been. I’d thought The Event had changed me all those years ago, but I was
wrong. It had been those words I’d written on that piece of paper which had
truly sealed my fate.
I am Alexandria Nicolette Deveraux and this
is my story.
********
I ran through
the woods, the sunlight warm on my face.
The sounds of the forest blended into the
wind that tore at my fur. The ground gave way beneath my paws as I launched
myself through the trees. Never had I felt so free, so exhilarated. I owned
these woods. Branches tugged, trying to slow me down as I bounded through the
maze of trunks and undergrowth. The cold autumn air smelled of dying
leaves—their moldy, decaying odor signaling the birth of fall.
I was home.
I slowed, catching the scent of a deer and
wove between the trees until I saw it.
A doe stood before me drinking from the
stream that wound its way down through the mountains. I admired the beauty of
the animal. I found the deer's gentle eyes rather expressive. They glowed with
a shy innocence.
I inched closer, testing the wind. It blew
towards me. My scent wouldn't reach her and I wanted a chase, a more
challenging kill. As I eased forward, I made no attempt to hide the sound of
the leaves crunching beneath me. I wanted her to hear me.
Turning toward the noise, she saw me and went
completely still for a heartbeat. Her eyes reflected her fear, her sudden
panic.
Her tail twitched and she bolted.
Growling, I barreled after her, letting her
think she could be fast enough to get away. Silly creature. As if she could
ever be faster than me. I lived to run
She streaked through the trees and I let her have her way for a bit. I enjoyed the chase. The sound of her deep, labored breathing drove me on, the smell of her fear driving me a little crazy. The thrill of the hunt wormed through me, building the sense of anticipation of the kill. I could almost taste all that hot blood gushing into my mouth. Her fear smelled sweet to my senses and made my hunger increase. I howled a challenge at her. She turned to start up the mountainside. I snarled and jumped, taking her down in one leap.
She streaked through the trees and I let her have her way for a bit. I enjoyed the chase. The sound of her deep, labored breathing drove me on, the smell of her fear driving me a little crazy. The thrill of the hunt wormed through me, building the sense of anticipation of the kill. I could almost taste all that hot blood gushing into my mouth. Her fear smelled sweet to my senses and made my hunger increase. I howled a challenge at her. She turned to start up the mountainside. I snarled and jumped, taking her down in one leap.
My teeth bit into her neck even as she bucked
beneath me, trying to free herself. Adrenaline surged through me—the
exhilaration of the hunt flooded my senses with her futile struggles. I had
taken her down. She was mine. Victory made my snarl all the more fierce in the
face of her soft whimpers. Mine. All mine.
As I had no wish to make her suffer I killed
her quickly. Then I set to enjoying my kill. Her warm blood filled my mouth,
coated my muzzle. I ripped and tore at the flesh until my stomach became full
and sated. I left the carcass for the smaller animals. I was done and there
were others that were hungry.
Running softly, I splashed into the creek to enjoy the feel of the cold water as I rinsed the blood from my coat. The water always soothed me. I blinked my eyes, more than a little sleepy now and thought I might find a quiet place to rest. I stepped out of the water and the unfamiliar scent hit me.
Running softly, I splashed into the creek to enjoy the feel of the cold water as I rinsed the blood from my coat. The water always soothed me. I blinked my eyes, more than a little sleepy now and thought I might find a quiet place to rest. I stepped out of the water and the unfamiliar scent hit me.
I tasted the air around me. A sweetly bitter
scent, not one I recognized teased my senses. It did not belong in these woods.
I started to track the smell, listening for sounds. I heard nothing, but the
smell became stronger the farther out I searched.
He jumped in front of me and shook his head,
warning me to go no further. Rage filled me. Who was he to tell me what I could
or could not do in my own forest? I growled a warning low in my throat.
He snarled at me in reply.
His head whipped around as he too caught the
scent I’d been tracking. I stared past him.
A new hunter had arrived.
He stood silently watching us, an indulgent
smile on his lips. I felt fear gazing into that smiling face.
The hunter started forward.
EYES OF THE
SEER
by Peter Dawes
“So, he speaks to himself now as well. Your descent into madness is almost complete.”
I turned my head at the sound of Michael’s
voice, seeing him standing behind me with his hands tucked inside the pockets
of his fine linen pants. The regal, pompous bane of my existence was clad in a
suit, his hair tied back again as though the Victorian era came and departed
while leaving him behind.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Was that directed at
me?”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see who
else I would be talking to, unless you have imaginary people to accompany the
voices in your head.”
I shrugged and looked back toward the wall.
“Doesn’t matter either way. I plan on ignoring them now.”
“You don’t have the resolve to accomplish
that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re weak. I’ve known that from the start,
when you were writhing on that bed like we’d set you on fire. And you have been
slowly unraveling ever since.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, smirking. The mocking
tone had finally found me on a night I was not apt to endure it. Pivoting to
face him fully, I folded my arms across my chest. “So, I take it that you rose
and immediately became the king of all vampires.”
“I didn’t scream like a stuck pig.” He
crossed his arms behind his back in return and walked two, measured paces
around to my side as if sizing me up. “Utterly useless,” he repeated, eyes
surveying me from head to foot. “Nothing more than a deathless mortal. You will
be nothing but a burden to this coven for all of your short, miserable
existence.”
“You have a lot of room to talk, you reject
from an antique store.” I shook off a wave of irritation as it surfaced.
“You call me a madman? Well, what does
speaking with a madman make you?”
Michael huffed. “As if your words could wound me. You are no better than our prey, Peter the Blind.”
Michael huffed. “As if your words could wound me. You are no better than our prey, Peter the Blind.”
I felt my fangs start to peek from their
hiding place, and clenched my jaw to hold them back. “I’m going to love having
a new identity and telling you to shove that pet name up your ass.”
“A new identity?”
I stepped closer to him. “Yes, I’m choosing
another name. Figured it’d make for a good change of pace.”
“So we can mock another moniker instead?”
Michael smirked.
“No, so I can show you just how little you
actually know about other people. You’re nothing more than an arrogant prick.”
He laughed and I saw his fangs slumbering
inside a sea of porcelain. “Bold words for an ignorant neophyte afraid of his
own shadow. Do you think me just weaned from my mother’s breast? I have lived
for many years while you have barely left a footprint on this mortal coil.”
The corner of my mouth curled. I closed our
distance with another stride. “How old does that make you, then?” I asked.
Michael’s blue eyes steadily held mine behind
the sunglasses. “One hundred and one years, with thirty-two mortal years prior
to that.”
An eyebrow rose in defiance. “And in all
those years, you never checked the calendar?” Tension filled the space between
us. “You look like you haven’t left the last century.”
“And you speak as though you were not
educated in this one.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” I spat.
“Allow me to enlighten you,” Michael said,
his smirk growing until it enveloped his countenance. His words dripped with
malice, smugness evident in everything from his expression to the posture he
assumed. “I can tell you have no clue what you are now. That you have no notion
of what it is to be an immortal despite what others have attempted to teach
you, and as such, do not deserve that title.” He paused. “I can tell one other
thing, too.”
“Oh?” I asked. I held his gaze and
reciprocated it measure for measure. “What would that be?”
Michael’s grin broadened. “That I have a
coward of a being standing before me, not having the strength or the genitalia
to keep his mortal girl happy. Little wonder she sought greener pastures. I
would have as well.”
The anger bubbling up inside me burst into a
glorious spectacle of fist meeting face. I punched Michael across his jaw
before he could dodge the blow, sending him sprawling onto the floor. Blinking
in surprise, I glanced quickly to my hand, but had no time to process what had
just occurred. Michael came to his feet, blood running from a cut on his lip,
and hissed at me with fangs elongated.
He wished a fight?
I hissed in return, more than willing to
oblige.
TRUE
CONNECTION
by Rachel Walter
I watch him as
he drives. Seeing the veins in his arm pop out as he turns the wheel and the
muscles ripple when he shifts a gear, I wonder what those arms would feel like
wrapped around… Stop it!
Every damn time I’m around him, I think like
a pervert! I inwardly growl and press my head back onto the headrest. I’ll just
look out the window then.
Trees are in no way erotic, or sensual, or
perverted.
Focusing on the trees is easy, but I can
still smell him. His amazing smelling cologne mixed with his clean, spicy scent
assaults my nose and begs me to lean in close. This car ride is taking forever.
The longer it takes, the more nervous I get.
I shift in my seat, cross and uncross my legs, and bite my lip as I stare at
endless trees.
‘The way she bites her lip makes me want to
pull the car over and…’
I gasp, and choke on my breath or saliva.
What was that?!
Who was that?
“Jaz, are you okay? Do I need to pull the car
over?”
I stare at him with saucer-like eyes. Oh, my
God, “pull the car over.” It was him, he was in my head.
His voice, in my freaking head!
“Stop the car! Stop the car, now!”
He glances in my direction looking concerned.
“We’re about five minutes to the lake. Can’t you…”
“Stop. The. Car. Seth.” I demand between
rasping breaths.
He pulls over alongside the road. There’s a
fallen tree next to the car on my side, but there’s enough room for me to open
the door. I wrench that sucker open and stumble out.
I need a minute to myself. Or twenty.
I walk towards the back of the car, step over
the log and sit on it so I’m facing the trees, and away from him.
Good Lord, I just heard his voice in my head.
Was that really his thought? Can I hear
thoughts now? Wouldn’t that be mind reading?
Wow, maybe I am crazy.
Mind readers don’t exist.
Henry will have to admit me to the hospital,
and I’ll share a room with Mom. Maybe I’ll have my own room, and the walls will
be padded. I’ll get a straightjacket, and they’ll have to give some really
strong medicine to knock me out.
Was I really biting my lip at the time?
Should I ask him if he thought that?
Oh, my God! No, I cannot ask him that!
He’ll think I’m a loon for sure! Maybe I
should test it first. I’ll bite my lip and see if that voice pops in my head
again.
I lean on my knees and put my head in my
hands.
This is ridiculous! Just get back in the car
you’re being a jagoff!
I resist the urge to pull my hair out, and with
a sigh, I stand. When I step back over the log, I look up to see Seth leaning
against his back bumper, watching me.
“Is everything okay?” he asks me slowly, like
if he talks too fast I might run away. He has his arms crossed over his chest.
His muscular arms, over that perfect... Stop
it already!
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Umm…well…” I take a
deep breath, open my eyes, and look at him. Gathering whatever courage I can
conjure up, I bite my lip on purpose.
He shifts a tiny bit and licks his lips.
It really was him in my head! I wasn’t
hearing things! I was hearing him!
He takes a step towards me, and I take one
back. But I forget about the log and end up landing on my ass with my legs
draped over the log. I burst out laughing, and Seth laughs, too.
He reaches out his hand to help me up. With
him laughing this hard, it’s easy to knock him off balance and pull him down to
me. So I do.
It feels nice having him like this, the
pressure of his body on mine. I have one hand on his chest, the other grips his
bicep.
Suddenly, we aren’t laughing anymore. We’re
just staring into each other’s eyes. He leans down towards me, and I bite my
lip again. He groans and closes his eyes as he gets closer to my mouth.
“I heard you, Seth,” I whisper against his
lips.
MADE TO FORGET
by Samantha LaFantasie
ALL AT ONCE,
THE weight and darkness lifted. I sucked in a deep breath, sitting up in the
cloudlike bed. Immediately, I found that abominable man staring out the window.
I left the bed, fueled by anger.
I approached, stopping before I got too close
to strangle him. “What the hell did you do to me?”
“What was necessary to keep you here … and
safe.”
“According to who?” I snapped.
“The man that loves you and would turn this
world upside down if it meant keeping you safe.” He sounded despondent,
continuing to stare out the window.
“I’ve got news for him–if he even
exists–keeping me prisoner and taking my memories from me isn’t love, it’s
torture. If he really loved me, he’d be here and I would have answers. Besides,
now I’m getting a headache.” A throb started at my left temple and pulsed
through my head.
“He loves you more than he loves his own
people. That’s why your father was angry. As soon as your relationship was
discovered, he disowned you and refused to listen to any reason. Even when he
was told the truth about you. You must have thought the man who loves you was
worth it, at one point.”
“He—he’s Nepherium?”
“Yes,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“I guess that makes sense,” I said.
He turned to me with eyes wide, full of
questions.
“My dad said I was mixing blood with them. He
was in such a heated rage I barely understood what he said. But there’s more
that I need to know.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Why would my lover want me to forget him?”
“He hoped that while you couldn’t remember,
you’d stay alive. He could protect you and finish the mission.”
The way he looked at me, pulling me in, made
me weak in the knees.
“And how would he feel about the way you’re
looking at me?” I asked before I could stop the words.
He blinked away, turning his attention to the
window before sighing and taking a seat in the shadowed chair.
I pushed further. “Or about knocking me out
before bringing me here?”
He leaned forward on his knees, covering his
face with his hands. “I’m …”
I waited a few seconds for him to continue.
When he didn’t, I wondered if I heard anything at all. “What?”
“You have to understand, for him, he’d move
the moon and stars to keep you safe. He did the only thing he could to save
your life.”
“And you? What is your place in all of this?
Why did you give me a ring to cover up a strange tattoo? Why can’t I see him?”
“I’m your partner. It is my job to protect
you. I can’t answer the last one.”
“Can’t or won’t?” I retorted.
“Pick one,” he snapped.
“You told me if I thought I could kill you,
you’d let me, because you deserved it. What did you do that would warrant me
killing you?”
“Please understand, this is more difficult
than giving simple answers to your questions. It’s far more complicated.”
I smiled at him, because it was the only
thing I could do with his ridiculous beating around the bush. He sat up,
seemingly disarmed by my small action.
PRESCRIPTION
FOR DELIRIUM
by Noree Cosper
He dug a cigarette out of a wrinkled pack. The lighter clinked open and made several click sounds before a flame flared to life. The world around me dimmed. Tendrils of darkness stretched out from his shadow, consuming all other light.
“I hope you don't sleep with the night light
on,” he said.
“What the fuck?” the woman said.
“Stay where you are,” I called to her.
“I can smell the rage on both of you.”
Tattoo’s voice floated around me. “I think I’ll be taking an added bonus home.”
I froze, trying to pinpoint him, but it
proved impossible to do through all the yells of the bikers and the scrambling.
The crack of a gunshot blared ahead of me. The flash of light lasted less than
a second before the dark swallowed it. The wind ruffled my hair as the bullet
passed close to me. I jerked back, and my hand brushed against leather behind
me.
Damn, he moved fast. I leaped forward and
stumbled over a body on the ground. My knee jarred as it caught the brunt of my
fall.
Tendrils, colder than ice, wrapped around my
ankles and wrists. The weapons slipped from my numb fingers, but I didn’t hear
them hit the ground. The bonds lifted me into the air and threw my back against
the wall of the motel. My arms were pulled above my head, yanking the right one
out of its socket. I screamed as pain raced through my shoulder. I twisted my
other arm, trying to slip it free, but the bonds held me tight.
My heart sped up, and my throat began to
close, making my breath come in small gasps. I had to calm down. I stilled and
closed my eyes. What good were they at the moment? I inhaled, counting to ten
before releasing, and rubbed my fingers together, relieved when they began to
tingle.
Tattoo’s body pressed against mine. His hot
breath on my face reeked of tobacco and just a hint of sulfur. Most people
missed the sulfur, but I’d been in this position before. This is where they
became cocky.
“So, sweetness, Why are you hunting us?” he
asked. “And what are you gonna do to make up for it?”
Sirens wailed in the distance, cutting
through the panicked voices. The blackness faded, and the night returned to
normal. Tattoo stood a few feet in front of me, inhaling the last few drags of
his cigarette as he stared off in the direction of the sirens. He blew the
fumes into my face, and I coughed, squeezing my eyes shut for a second. I
started when he stumbled into me. He staggered back with a moan, his hand going
to his lower back, and he spun to the mystery woman behind him. The woman
stepped back in a fighting stance with a smirk.
“Don’t forget about me, asshat,” she said.
“Bitch!” Tattoo said. “You’ll pay for that.”
“You gonna make me ugly?” Mystery Woman
asked.
A growl rolled out of the Tattoo’s throat and
he lunged at her. The woman moved to the side and held her foot out. Her leg
came up in an axe kick that hit the back of the demon's head as he bumbled
forward. My bonds disappeared and I dropped to the ground. I landed on my feet,
swallowing a whimper as I jarred my shoulder.
Tattoo backed away from both of us with a
scowl on his face. “This isn’t over.”
He ran for his bike with his lackeys bumbling
after him, at least the ones who could move. I gathered my weapons, fumbling
with one arm as I tried to sheathe them. The woman chased after the bikers but
stopped short when pock face raised the gun at her. He held her there until
Tattoo disappeared down the road in the opposite direction of the sirens.
“Do you even know how to use that?” I moved
up behind the woman, holding my useless arm to my body.
“S-stay where you are,” he said.
The woman moved, but I grabbed her arm. She
swung her head in my direction with her eyes narrowed. Pock-face hopped on his
bike and started it up.
“He’s not the demon, and a rather pathetic
biker,” I said. “Too easy for you.”
“And I’m supposed to listen to the masked
avenger because?”
I blinked for a moment at her odd comment.
“Do you wish to get arrested?”
She mumbled.
“Grab your gun, and let’s go.”
I led her through a hall that cut between the
front of the motel and the back. No one followed us. The bikers were too busy
trying to get themselves out of this mess, and the other guests didn’t want to
get involved. The door to my room clicked shut behind her and I flattened her
against the door with my knife to her throat.
“If you move anything but your mouth, I will
bury my blade in your neck,” I said. “Who do you serve?”
DEAD GIRLS
NEVER SHUT UP
by Susan Stec
Several things
happened at once.
Behind Toni, Sara lost her fight with the
steak knife—it sliced through her throat—and blood squirted from her jugular
all over the stout guy, and then she promptly fell face first into her salad.
Paul let out an anguished cry, grabbed his throat, jumped out of his chair, and
staggered back several steps, choking.
The room sounded like one big gasp.
Toni pounded on Paul's back.
Sara's date jumped up, knocked over his
chair, and fumbled back a few feet, wiping blood from his face and chest. He
lost his footing in the mess on the floor, passed through Ruth, and landed in
an ass-cracking fall at her feet.
At the same time, the knife hit the floor and slid a bloody trail a few feet before it tripped a waitress. She sent a tray laden with food and drinks flying. Two patrons in the path of the tray yelped, slid into each other, and began to do what looked like an inebriated tango as they tried to stay afoot.
At the same time, the knife hit the floor and slid a bloody trail a few feet before it tripped a waitress. She sent a tray laden with food and drinks flying. Two patrons in the path of the tray yelped, slid into each other, and began to do what looked like an inebriated tango as they tried to stay afoot.
Toni put her hands around Paul's torso and
began to administer the Heimlich maneuver. "Will everyone calm down?
You're not helping! Someone call an ambulance. He can't breathe!" Toni shouted,
face against Paul's back as she made a two handed fist and squeezed his torso.
Ruth steadied herself, stepped into the stout
guy's stomach, and then leaned under the table as the whole bar fell into
uncontrollable chaos around her. Several patrons ran through her buttocks on
the way to the front door and her rear-end looked like a fluttering sail in the
wind. She asked, "Will y'be needin' some help, Martin?"
Martin growled at her and wiggled out of the
floor. He floated up from under the table about the time a fragmented puff of
smoke started to rise from Sara.
"Oh dear, I'm afraid we'll 'ave some
explainin' t'do, Godrest'ersoul," Ruth whined, stepping through the table
to stand next to the smoke forming into a cloud of mottled pink and white,
looking an awful lot like Sara.
"What the hell? Where am I?" Sara's
ghostly image croaked. "Is that me in my salad?"
"Yes, dear, I'm afraid so," Ruth
answered.
"Sara, help me, dammit!" Toni
shouted from across the room as she tried to maneuver Paul around so she could
see her sister.
"Help you?" Sara spat, floating
over her dead body. "I'm the one with her face in her salad. You idiot!
Let go of the stud-muffin and get your ass over here!"
"I'm afraid she can't 'ear ya,
dear."
Toni caught sight of her sister and screamed,
"Ohmigod! Sara! That's my sister!"
Paul grabbed Toni's shoulder, gagged, and
choked out, "I'm so sorry."
"Great! Just great!" Martin spat.
"Bartholomew did it again. Let's hope incredibly noisy and obnoxiously
vain over here can at least give us some information about Old-Navy-Boy over
there." His finger pointed from Sara to Paul.
Martin whipped to one side as Toni ran past,
Paul following like a well behaved marionette.
"Is that blood on my neck?" Sara
shrieked, swiping her hand through the cadaver's throat.
"We 'ave a bit o'bad news, dear,"
Ruth said, patting the tips of her fingers through Sara's shoulder.
"You've friggin' got to be kidding me.
I'm dead? Dead as in… freakin' dead? This has got to be a nightmare!" Sara
lunged for her flaccid body and fell right through it.
"Oh my, now we 'ave t'get 'er out o'the
cellar, we do. Come along, Martin," Ruth said, taking a nosedive into the
floor.
Martin tapped his foot in and out of the floor, watching the chaos as lookey-loos congregated around the table.
Martin tapped his foot in and out of the floor, watching the chaos as lookey-loos congregated around the table.
Several teens, cell phones filming, were
carrying on frantic conversations as Ruth burst through the floor with a
screaming Sara in tow. Sara erratically hovered over the table and glared at
her sister. Toni stood beside Sara's body, with her hands over her mouth, face
horror stricken, head moving back and forth.
"Give me a good shake," Sara said.
"Just shake me, Toni! I know if you shake me I'll come back to life."
Toni wrapped her hands around her stomach and
rocked as tears streamed down her cheeks. She gagged, retched, and then vomited
all over the table in front of her sister's body.
Sara's fists streaked through Toni's torso
several times as she shrieked, "Uck! Eck! She pukes? She F'n upchucks?
That's just nasty! Now I not only have Bleu cheese salad dressing all over my
face and a gaping hole in my neck, but puke in my hair!" She tried to grab
a handful of Toni's red curls but only made them flutter like leaves in a soft
breeze.
Working up some attitude, Sara slapped her
hands into her hips and shook her butt; fists embed in her pelvic bone.
"Just kick me—slap me—do something to
get my friggin' heart beating again! I need a damn shower!"
Paul tried to hand Toni a napkin and guide
her away from the table.
Sara shoved her nose halfway into Paul's
face. "Oh-no-you-don't!" She turned on her sister. "Stop your
blubbering! Grab the napkin! Wipe that shit off my face; I've about had it with
you!" Sara kicked her smoky foot through Toni and ended up floating
horizontally in front of her.
"Don't you think we should say something
to her?" Martin asked.
"Godbless'er, I think we should let 'er
carry on a bit, love," Ruth said from the ceiling above the table.
"Won't be long, it won't. They should be draggin' 'er carcass out o' 'ere
soon enough."
THE PORTRAIT
OF ALATIEL SALAZAR
by Steven Katriel
Camden Town,
1880
THIS IS MY
VOICE. You cannot hear me, but I hope you will read my thoughts . . . .
The only sign
of life he found in the broken and windswept house was one of death, the
outline of a body, borne on a cradle of blood-stained paper. The intruder took
another page from the dishevelled bed and continued to read Helena Graham’s
journal:
I will endeavour to record everything—every
word, each thought and action; such is the hateful gift of insight Alatiel has
forced upon me. To my regret, I am certain she will take her turn to relate our
story, smiling to herself all the while, secure in her wretched vanity and the
knowledge that the chances of this journal being found are slim. Besides, she
may just cast these pages into the fire and all my words will have been in
vain. That would amuse her, I imagine . . . if indeed she is capable of such a
human trait’.
She will use my mind, my memories, to set
down this tale. I hope against hope that someone discovers my journal and,
having read it, fashions a way to destroy Alatiel, even if this action means
the loss of what was once my life.
Spring
“I’VE FOUND
HER!” Julian Paradine said. Those were his very words. But, truth be told,
Alatiel found him, marked him out; well, she left her mark on poor Julian . . .
on all of us, in fact.
We sat outside a small café on Thurzon
Street, the men daydreaming, no doubt, that they were kindred souls of the
Parisian Bohemians we had all read about; I, the token female in this circle of
art lovers, was admitted only by virtue of my writing pastime and, of course,
because of my brother. Although our parents had passed on, keeping company with
these harmless ‘radicals’ would have been unthinkable were it not for my
beloved Matthew.
Julian alone had actually been to Paris, but
then, he was the only one amongst us whose career was in the ascendant; the
Academy were beginning to notice his crowd-pleasing paintings. We were happy to
follow his lead in so many things . . . .
He pulled away from our table, took the girl
roughly by the arm and pushed her forward. She appeared to glide, or float, towards
us, and even when the cause of her strange and somewhat comical motion came
into view, the eerie effect remained. The girl gave the impression of perfect
control—of herself and of events—although seemingly at the whim of her master.
She did not stir, did not blush, as one might expect.
With his usual carefree, infectious
enthusiasm—the joie de vivre which so endeared him to us—Julian presented his
new plaything for closer inspection. Or perhaps that should be ‘delectation’;
Matthew’s mouth fell open, and he gazed in wonderment. The poet Callum Flynn,
however, flinched as though he’d been struck. He raised himself, made no
attempt at excuses and simply murmured, “I must go,”; he’d always impressed me
as a strange man, all the more now. My fiancé, Gabriel Holland, also stood up
suddenly and left us. His seat fell to the ground, and he backed away from the
table. Finally he excused himself by claiming that he was worried about Flynn.
At first, we were perplexed and concerned, but once the two friends had
departed, we gave free rein to our merriment. To my shame, I was too curious
about Julian’s latest escapade to follow Gabriel. As it was, the remaining men
resumed their scrutiny of the girl in that concentrated, trepidatious and
thoroughly silly way which is the hallmark of their sex. I, of course, could
stare freely at her, with no such pretence or man-made restriction.
Certainly, she was beautiful, but in a
strangely bland, indistinct way—not unlike an elder sister of Mr Carroll’s
‘Alice’, I thought. Her complexion was simply too pale, as though iced water
slithered through her thin veins, and her ash blonde hair had none of the
lustre of true health.
Julian held the girl by her shoulders and
addressed us again:
“Well actually, Cristian Salazar found her,
or rather, he bought her. Made a gift of her to me. She is perfect, isn’t she?”
he looked at each of us in turn, soliciting agreement. “Say hello to Alatiel.”
They greeted her respectfully enough, I
suppose, though Daniele Navarro made a show of slowly raising his hat, a
display of ironic homage unworthy of him, I thought. Perhaps I was mistaken,
and this was the closest thing to chivalry he could muster . . . . Matthew
stuttered a few indecipherable words, such was his amusing shyness. The girl
remained silent and still. Julian Paradine stood apart from her now.
“Ah, my apologies, gentlemen—and Helena, of
course—I should have mentioned that Alatiel is a mute . . . or, at least, she
claims she is.”
I felt rather ashamed as the others laughed
at the girl’s expense.
“Alatiel . . . that seems familiar to me, as
if it were from a book I read many years ago.”
“She has no name, Daniele,” Julian said, “so
I chose one for her. I have invented her, you might say.”
FOUR IN THE
MORNING
by Christi Goddard
My mom’s a
liar.
What parents aren’t, right? They tell their
kids lies about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. Even the
Boogeyman who crouches in the shadows beneath beds has his legend whispered into the ears of
young green bean-haters.
I wished my mom would use her power of
deception for good. For one, I wouldn’t have to chase down people in the dark,
braving the muggers and would-be rapists who lurk in the bushes on my street.
If she’d told the boy who came knocking I was upstairs in my room, then we could have had a quick—though unlikely civil—conversation on the front porch. Instead, she told him I was out with another boy.
And she didn’t just tell this to anyone. No, of course not. She told this to Josh Colby.
If she’d told the boy who came knocking I was upstairs in my room, then we could have had a quick—though unlikely civil—conversation on the front porch. Instead, she told him I was out with another boy.
And she didn’t just tell this to anyone. No, of course not. She told this to Josh Colby.
It was the equivalent of having some
celebrity knock on your door after their car broke down. Except, as far as
celebrities go, Josh’s status didn’t reach beyond the doors of our high school.
We’d known each other for the many years of our educational careers, and mostly
succeeded with our mutual effort to avoid speaking to one another.
Mocking doesn’t count.
“Josh!”
I was too lazy to run for more than a block.
To scream seemed an easier solution. When a male voice called back, I smiled at
my small victory of intelligence over physical prowess.
“Yeah?”
He sounded close, within a block or so, but I
couldn’t see him. The sliver of moon lacked radiance as it was smothered by
dark clouds, but the streetlights were enough to confirm there was no silhouette
of him on the sidewalk. He must have cut through a neighbor’s yard to head back
to his house on the next street over.
“What did you want?” I winced at the sudden,
sharp brilliance of lightning. Spots did flip-flops against the stretched
shadows on the grass as my vision tried to recover. The scent of ozone carried
on the cool breeze blended with that of a fresh cut lawn.
“That you, Elchubba?”
Elchubba is not my name. Not even close. Not
that many of the kids at my school cared, and several might even be shocked to
discover my real name was Kathleen. Not Kathy. Definitely not Elchubba. To my
eternal frustration, I won that clever little nickname in junior high. Mostly
because Ryan Dixon is a jerk, but also because I was horizontally challenged
and usually clad in black from hair strand-to-toenail polish. It’s to do with
Elvira. Lame, I know.
I just hoped Josh hadn’t asked my mother if Elchubba was home. I wouldn’t put it past him. Instead of correcting him,
I just hoped Josh hadn’t asked my mother if Elchubba was home. I wouldn’t put it past him. Instead of correcting him,
I turned on my heel and headed home. I didn’t
answer him on principle.
My house was still a sadistic distance from
me when I heard Josh stumble through some bushes near the sidewalk behind me.
Oh, heavy black boots, how you’ve failed me again.
“Wait!”
He mumbled a curse behind me after the
distinct sound of his rubber soles tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. I
didn’t slow down. Maybe he would follow me all the way back to my front door so
I could slam it in his face.
He outpaced me to step into my path. I
considered knocking him on his boney ass. I had the weight and momentum to do
it. A whiff of whatever cheap, man-scent product he used to attract girls
assaulted my nose. It reminded me of dish soap and burnt popcorn.
“Please, would you just stop?” Josh said.
“Fine. What do you want?”
A car horn blared a few blocks away, followed
by the squeal of tires. Josh glanced around like a super secret spy.
My response was an eye roll and crossed arms.
If he didn’t want to be seen talking to me, then he shouldn’t have answered me.
For that matter, he shouldn’t have come over.
Josh said, “I need you to do me a favor.”
The laugh that escaped me sounded more
maniacal than I expected. “You’re high.”
Great. I wound up chasing a boy I hated down
the street to do a favor for him. It was not the pinnacle of my existence. At
least I hope not.
“No, I’m serious.” Josh leaned closer and
dropped his voice. “I’ll pay you.”
“Then it’s not a favor. It’s a business
proposition,” I said. “If you’re going to pay me for services—of the
non-prostitutional variety—then it’s a business arrangement, not a favor. A
favor I’d do for free.”
The hopeful look that passed his face
prompted me to add, “For friends, not for you.”
“Okay, whatever.” Josh fished in a pocket of
his too-baggy jeans and pulled out a folded bill. It was too dark for me to see
which president. He smiled, his teeth a perfect picket fence of glaring white.
“I want you to write a letter for me.”
My eyebrows lifted without my permission. “A
letter? To who?” I didn’t ask why me. I was editor for the school paper and
wrote for the quarterly lit magazine.
“I’m not telling you unless you agree to do
it.”
INTO YOU
by Riley J.
Ford
It happens in
the movie theater when I finally kiss Ethan Cooper. Her body rocks, I hear him
say, except he doesn’t speak. Not out loud, anyway. At first I think it’s
someone whispering behind us. Then I wonder if Miranda’s playing a joke on me
until I remember she’s sitting
four seats away making out with Billy Timmons.
When Ethan’s lips touch mine again and I hear
his voice—she needs a breath mint—loud and clear like a TV announcer in my
brain, I yank back and stare at him. My neck prickles with fear and my heart
pounds hard. What the hell is going on?
“Did you say something?” I ask. I hope he has
some kind of ventriloquist powers and I’m not losing my mind.
“Uh, no. I was in the middle of kissing you.”
He sort of laughs, his fingers stroking my neck. I pull away and look at the
screen. Julia Roberts blathers on about something with her big horse teeth. My
heart races uncontrollably, thumping so loudly I can almost hear my ribs
rattling, and not because I’ve just kissed the boy who I’ve crushed on since
June.
No, it’s racing because something really freaky has just happened—twice—and I can’t deny it.
No, it’s racing because something really freaky has just happened—twice—and I can’t deny it.
“What’s wrong?” Ethan asks. I can feel him
staring at me in the dark.
“You said I need a breath mint,” I mutter. I
wait for him to react. After all, it was his voice I’d heard. It just happened
to be inside my head when he said it. But maybe he was playing some sort of
trick on me. Maybe I’m mistaken. I sure hope so.
Ethan is quiet for a long moment before
speaking. “Uh, I didn’t realize I said it out loud.”
“So you did say it?”
Someone behind us shushes us.
“I must have,” he says. “How weird.”
“Well, thanks a lot for telling me I have bad
breath. Makes a girl feel real special.”
“Hey, don’t be pissed. I didn’t mean it in a
bad way.”
As if there’s a good way to mean it. I slump
down in my seat. Inside I’m actually sort of relieved. Ethan did say it out
loud. Not inside my head. Maybe I’m just tired. Or whacked out on soda. All
that caffeine can mess you up, especially those huge paper tankers of soda they
sell at the movies. I would hate to think I have a mental problem or am crazy
or something.
Being a normal girl from Redondo Beach suits
me fine, a normal girl about to enter her junior year of high school who is
just enjoying her summer. I go to the beach with my best friend Miranda, talk
about boys, hit the mall, eat cheese fries with ranch dressing, experiment with
different kinds of make-up, and watch TV after dinner. Nothing too
out-of-the-ordinary or weird has ever happened to me—unless you count the time
I made a half-court throw at a RBHS game and won a hundred dollars and a wheel
of Brie. See, being normal is exhausting enough. Definitely no room in my life
for being psychic or reading minds!
Ethan pokes my arm. “You okay?”
“What’s good about bad breath?” I whisper,
moving my body away from him. My face is hot, stinging with embarrassment. I
shouldn’t have had those grilled onions on my burger before our date. What was
I thinking? Dragon breath is not an accessory a girl should wear.
“Dude, it’s really no big,” he says. “Just
get some gum later, okay?”
More shushing behind us, loudly.
I sit fuming in silence, not knowing if I
should get up and leave or what. But then Ethan’s arm snakes slowly around my
shoulders and that tingle returns—the one I’ve gotten every time I’ve seen him
at the hot dog place where he works at the mall. I’ve spent all summer going
there, using every cent of my allowance on corn dogs, hot dogs, fries,
mozzarella sticks, and lemonades (and gaining a friggin’ five pounds because of
it), just so I could see him. I finally got up my courage to give him my phone
number, and he’d grinned and said he would call. He finally did, and now here
we are with Miranda and her sometimes-boyfriend sitting four seats away while I
try not to breathe oily onion fumes on this hot guy with spiked blonde hair and
a nice laugh.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers in my ear. He leans
in and kisses me again with those soft full lips that I’ve stared at for so
long. His face this close feels nice. He’s so cute. If he doesn’t mind my
breath, I shouldn’t either. Okay, Winter, chill, I tell myself. I’ll just go
buy some mint gum the second we leave the theater.
Ethan’s lips are warm and moist on mine. I
relax against his body.
What’s her problem? She’s acting so uptight.
His voice reverberates through my head again. And it is definitely in my head
because his mouth is still on mine!
I didn’t mean to mention the breath, but if
she’s gonna be so lame about it, I’ll ditch her after the flick and go find my
bros. Who needs this shit? Chicks come into Diggety Dog a dime a dozen, and I
can have any of them. There’s always another ho around the corner.
I yank out of Ethan’s embrace, my body
trembling. What is happening? His voice was in my brain, loud and clear and
unmistakable. Am I losing my mind? I need to know.
“Why would you talk to me like that?” I ask.
“It’s rude.” I hope he’ll admit he was messing with me, talking out the side of
his mouth or something, joking in a lame sort of way.
“I didn’t say anything.” Ethan’s tone sounds
pinched, weird.
“Yes, you did. I heard you say you’re going
to ditch me to hang out with your bros, that I’m uptight, that girls are a dime
a dozen, and that there’s always another ho around the corner!” Anger seizes
me. “Did you just call me a ho?”
A voice behind us hisses loudly, “Quiet!”
Ethan doesn’t say anything. His silhouette is
stiff, like a cardboard cutout of himself.
He jumps up. “I’m outta here!” Then he’s
gone, loping up the aisle.
CLEOPATRA’S
NEEDLE
by Carole Lanham
13 June 1897
It’s dangerous
for me to keep going to him but Iago says the only time his head is clear is
when we’re together. I’ve explained to him what Bethan is doing; calling him to
her, making him hurt himself. I’ve told him to listen for my voice instead
whenever he hears Bethan intruding in his thoughts. If we can work together to
overcome what she’s doing, I think he’ll be able to leave.
1 July 1897
Today Iago
came running like his hair was on fire and all because of me. Bethan made me
call him. ‘Tell him to bang his head against that wall,' she instructed.
His beautiful cheeks are still scratched from
yesterday when she commanded he tear off his face. I didn’t want to see him
bang his head on the wall but I kept thinking about what she did to Ceiro that
last day and I didn’t want to make her any angrier than she already was. I
spoke inside his sweet trusting head and he hammered his skull until blood
poured in his eyes. ‘That’s wonderful, Meriel. What a good little witch you’ve
turned out to be. He’ll do anything for you, won’t he?’
Poor Iago. He was still hitting his head on
the bricks. ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Bethan said. ‘Why don’t you ask him to
show Gwendraith and me what you’ve been doing to him every night?’
‘Stop it!’ I said, fed up to my core. ‘This
has gone far enough. We need to let him go.’
Bethan grabbed him by the hair to stop his
thrashing. ‘Show me what Meriel does to you when you’re alone, Boy’ she said.
When I tried to block her voice, Gwendraith put my head in a bucket and held me
under water. By the time she let me up, he was kissing Bethan. She made me
watch this for several moments before shoving him away. Her smile was covered
with his blood. ‘I want you to punch my sister in the head as hard you can now,
Boy.”
He didn’t hesitate. The first blow struck me
across the jaw. The second, crunched my ear. Between the pounding of his fists,
Bethan pounded me too. ‘How dare you take him for yourself!’ she said. ‘He
belongs to all of us!’
She gave him the ax. ‘Kill her.’
‘No Bethan!’ Gweny said.
I looked at my sister who I loved. I’d
followed her blindly, I loved her so. I waited for her to put an end to all of
this. Iago lifted the ax and she folded her arms.
He swung.
Luckily, he lost his balance and his aim was
bad. I saw the tops of the fingers on my left hand come off. They scattered
across the floor between us and there was a lot of blood, but I didn’t feel it.
Iago staggered to his feet and we all looked
at Bethan, expectantly. Bethan kicked the tip of my little finger across the
room. ‘Lock her in the barn, Gwendraith.’
SUMMONED
by Rainy Kaye
I dislike having to murder someone.
Kidnapping is worse. At least when I setup a kill, I know what’s coming. No
connections, no honesty, no surprises. Everything I say and do are just steps
to luring in my victim. Once the victim falls right into the trap, the next
move is swift: crushed windpipe, fatal concussion, or a good ol’ fashioned
headshot.
Kidnapping, on the other hand, is a
little trickier. First, the victim has an opportunity to respond. I don’t like
this. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they manage to alert the authorities. And
sometimes they escape, usually by inflicting bodily harm on me.
Dead people don’t retaliate.
Kidnapped ones, well, they’re a little more . . . lively.
The second major difference between
killing and kidnapping is my conscience. I get in and out with a kill. We have
no chance to bond.
Abductees require a little more
one-on-one. As much as I try to keep the switch turned off, I can’t help but
listen to their pleas and demands. And I usually realize I’m a jerk
That’s exactly where I find myself
one late afternoon in June. I prefer doing this at night, but moreover, I would
prefer not doing this at all.
Instead, I have a belligerent nine
year old girl sitting in the passenger seat of my Honda Accord, shackles on her
wrists and ankles and a small stuffed bunny on her lap. She’s eying me in a way
that makes me self-conscious. Like I’m the bad guy.
Probably because I am the bad guy.
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