

Fusion: A collection of short stories from Breakwater Harbor Books' authors

Featuring gripping Independent authors from around the world, FUSION is the first collection of short works published by Breakwater Harbor Books. Contributing heart-pumping tales of Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror and Crime are seven stories that will thrill you, rivet you and some will even make you sleep with the light on. Authors from across a wide variety of genres, Dee Harrison, Ivan Amberlake, Claire C. Riley, Scott J. Toney, Mindy Haig, Cara Goldthorpe and C.M.T. Stibbe.

Fusion: A collection of short stories from Breakwater Harbor Books' authors

By Dee Harrison, Ivan Amberlake, Claire C Riley, Scott J. Toney, Mindy Haig, Cara Goldthorpe and C.M.T. Stibbe

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Breakwater Harbor Books
Breakwater Harbor Books, Inc.

Scott J. Toney and Cara Goldthorpe, Co-Founders

www.breakwaterharborbooks.com

Copyright © 2013 by Breakwater Harbor Books

Release, August 2013

License Notes

This novel is a collection of short, fictional works. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of our authors' imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living, dead, or otherwise is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owners.

Breakwater Harbor Books maintains the copywright for Fusion: a collection of short works by Breakwater Harbor Books' authors, while Breakwater Harbor Books' authors retain the rights to distribute and do anything they wish with the works they have individually submitted.

Breakwater Harbor Books is an Independent Author Imprint that is dedicated to its members and to the production of high quality works.
TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Sliver of Abilon – A Mirrorsmith Tale – 'and you thought it was safe to look in the mirror?'

DEE HARRISON

Diary of the Gone - Without a girlfriend, bullied by the Principal's son, and haunted by the dead, Callum Blackwell thinks his life can't get any worse. But he's wrong.

IVAN AMBERLAKE

Life Ever After. Nina's Story: Part one. – When the dead begin to rise, it's time to put your differences aside and run!

CLAIRE C. RILEY

NovaFall – When the Meteor falls, the essences will come, forging flesh and planetary souls as one.

SCOTT J. TONEY

Cybilla. – To claim his Muse, one man must find the gate between the mortal and the immortal worlds.

MINDY HAIG

Capturing Perfection – An artist's tale of love, loss and beauty in Renaissance Milan

CARA GOLDTHORPE

Until The Ninth Hour – Until a man loses his daughter to a serial killer, until he loses his best friend, until he is down on his luck, Darryl Williams must put all thoughts of retaliation out of his mind.

C.M.T. STIBBE
The Sliver of Abilon – A Mirrorsmith Tale

by DEE HARRISON

Junah Venmark, Master Mirrorsmith, exited the wayportal directly into the seaweed stench of Abilon. The foul odour tickled the back of his throat and he gagged on a rise of bile. Mirrorsmith Guild protocol demanded that he preview his destination before he arrived but it could not prepare him for an assault on his other senses. He vomited onto the trackway, just thankful that there was no-one to witness his most pitiful entrance ever. He loathed the smell of mouldy greens – it stirred up too many reminders of his wretched childhood in the back alleys of Varna, largest city on his homeworld of Vargo – but this was kabbige soup intensified tenfold.

When his heaving subsided, Junah sank down onto his rump, trying to ignore the early evening dew which was soaking into his leggings. He pulled a kerchief from his belt-purse, to wipe the spittle from his lips, and cursed this ill-favoured world. Sissik, his wail, chittered and scurried around him like a silver-furred cyclone, mewing her distress. Junah winced when she skipped onto his tender stomach, the better to peer into his face with her large, prosimian eyes. He ran a finger down her spine and she slowly relaxed beneath his touch.

Junah ill? She sent.

No, I'm fine, Little One he reassured her. He grimaced. The smell caught me out, that's all.

Sissik wrinkled her own nose. Nasty, nasty stink, she concurred.

Junah delved into his purse a further time and extracted a couple of lozenges from a packet. A few chews later and he could smell nothing.

"Next time I'll take 'em before I get here," he promised out loud. "Not that there'll be a next time!"

Junah clambered to his feet and peeled the sodden fabric from his buttocks. Sissik took her accustomed place on his shoulders, hiding beneath his long, dark hair and curled around his neck like a fur collar. Wails were native to all the worlds of the Regium, even the undeveloped ones like Abilon. Some wails, the silver-furred ones like Sissik, were prized for their ability to generate the acoustic frequencies that Mirrorsmiths depended upon. Others, the plumper, browner ones, made good eating. Whenever Sissik irritated him, which was often, Junah threatened to dye her coat russet. Now, however, she was quiescent, understanding that it was time for work.

The wayportal, part of the network of gates that connected all the worlds of the Regium, had opened between a pair of standing stones that dominated the headland to the north of Abilon. Junah looked down at the coastal town, which nestled within the arms of a sheltering bay. A slash of fire on the horizon marked where the sun was setting and silhouetted the ugly, squat fortress guarding the harbour mouth. Somewhere among the sleazy alleyways of this provincial rats' nest below was the inn where his contact waited. It was supposed to be a routine mission according to Teren Lemmick, Guild Master but also his oldest friend. All Junah had to do was locate the sliver of Desecrated Mirror, secure it then return it to the Mirrorsmiths' Guild on Vargo, where it could be destroyed in relative safety. He had carried out scores of such 'grabbits' but this time unease pricked his spine. Mirrorsmiths tended towards the superstitious and worlds like Ysreal, with its triple moons, were considered inauspicious but this went deeper than that. Junah's senses were trained to detect distorted vibrations and this place was riddled with them – probably due to the presence of the sliver. Sissik's tail tightened around his neck so he dampened down his disquiet. Wails were sensitive to heightened emotion. He checked his accoutrements once more then headed for Abilon, thinking it best to get this trip over with as quickly as possible.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the streets of Abilon were crowded. Every third house seemed to be selling ale and shabby, ill-visaged townsfolk bumped and barged their way through the densely-packed lanes. Junah knew roughly where the inn lay but he had previewed it during daylight and it took him a while to reach the waterfront. He spent a few minutes reconnoitring then pulled his hood up and entered the tavern.

Not surprisingly most of the patrons were fishermen and the uneven floorboards must have made them feel right at home. Junah jostled his way through the raucous hubbub, towards the booth where he had arranged to meet his accomplice, but an overripe, blousy serving girl intercepted him.

"What can I get you, Dearie?" she asked. She leaned into his chest and expertly fondled his crutch. "The house special is only a couple of rels for a tall fellow like y'self."

Junah removed her hand and pressed a coin into it.

"I'll settle for a jar of ale, sweetling."

She pouted, pretending disappointment, then sashayed back into the press. He straightened his semi-erect member and resumed his errand. On occasion there were some perks to the job, he mused. Though you'd better ensure that all your vacs are up to date, old son, he reminded himself.

Junah walked past the booth, as if going out the back door, and scanned the occupant. A morose-looking man, with the local curly brown hair and a bushy moustache, stared into an untouched beaker of ale. The pre-arranged signal, a red-spotted kerchief, was knotted around his neck. Junah slid onto the bench opposite to him and startled him, such that some ale slopped onto the table between them.

"You the Mirrorsmith?" asked the other, when he had recovered his wits. Junah nodded. "'Prentice, journeyman or Magister?"

"Journeyman." A competent but not too-threatening rank.

"Where's your wail?"

"Don't have one, only Magisters are entitled," Junah lied, again. The man's larynx quivered and he pulled at the kerchief. Junah traced a pattern through the spilt liquid. "So, when do we leave?" The other, a retainer in the household of the local Prefect, had agreed to smuggle Junah inside the fortress, which was where the sliver was reported to be.

Shadows swallowed the brittle candlelight as three thickset bullyboys neatly penned them in. One, the nearest, slant-eyed and balding, twitched back the edge of his cloak and rested it on the hilt of a regulation thief-taker's dagger.

"You leave when we say so," this one said. He glared at Junah's table-mate. The man fled, muttering, "I'm sorry, I had no choice, my wife, you understand, I'm sorry," over and over like a litany.

Junah placed both hands on the table.

"There some problem, Judicar?" he asked carefully. Hard-earned experience had taught him that local peacekeepers were a touchy lot.

"That depends on you, Matey. Stand up and keep yer hands where we can see 'em."

Junah slid along the bench but, as he rose to his feet, his elbow caught the abandoned ale beaker. Its contents sloshed out everywhere, distracting the Judicars' attention for vital seconds. Judah shoved his hand into his purse, pulled out his firestick and flicked the tip. The ale ignited with a spectacular flash and Junah legged it for the door.

He almost made it. The blousy serving girl stepped in front of him, winked and smacked her tankard into the side of his head. Junah went down, senses spinning.

"Should'ave taken me offer up, Dearie. It wouldn't hurt so much," she advised him with a leery grin. A second blow, from a boot this time, catapulted him into blackness.

#

Junah awoke in a strange bed. This, by itself, was not unusual but the lot of a roving Mirrorsmith. On this occasion, however, Junah had not expected to come round in quite such delectable surroundings. An ornate plasterwork cornice, delicate silk hangings and a Farrian rug bespoke wealth and fine taste. There were no mirrors though, he noted with a wry snort, and a grille at the window confirmed that, however sumptuous the decor, the chamber was still a prison. He sat up but his vision see-sawed so he sank back down and probed at his temple. Sensitive fingers detected a large contusion already healing at the accelerated rate enjoyed by members of Junah's profession. A few more hours and it would be gone completely.

A foray beneath the coverlets revealed that he was naked. White scars, old friends all, showed against his tanned skin. He scanned the room for his belongings but they were not in obvious sight. Mindful of his head, Junah slipped from the bed and crossed to the window. The inky darkness of the sea blended seamlessly into the night sky. He placed a hand on the granite pilaster that divided the casement and sensed the throb of the tide from somewhere below him. There were no lights visible from the town so he surmised that he was being held within the fortress on the seaward side. It was the place he needed to be, but not quite the manner of it.

Junah tried to ignore his throbbing headache and focussed his attention on Sissik. Before entering the inn he had offloaded the little creature into a hidey-hole where she could monitor proceedings in relative safety; a practice that had saved his life on more than one occasion. He had sewn her a special harness and backpack to hold his most precious possessions; the silver wire and tools to extract and bind the slivers of mirror; the crystals which manipulated the wayportals and other technology of the ancient race that had created them; the woven tri-gold ring that signified his true rank and authority.

Little One, where are you?

Junah! The wail's delight was clear. Sissik was worried! Nasty men put Junah in a wheely thing and carry him away. Sissik follow and the thought was accompanied by feelings of disgust. Sissik's paws stink now, need bath. Junah need bath?

Junah smiled. Sissik was such a fusspot when it came to keeping her claws and fur clean.

Yes, Junah needs a bath, he answered her then, more seriously, are you in the fortress? He imaged the stone structure for her.

I is in the kitchen. Nasty men not look for Sissik. It was easy to get inside. Junah want Sissik to seek him out?

Junah deliberated then decided against it.

No. Remain out of sight for now but be ready to come if I call. I need to find out what's going on here.

There was a sense of exasperation from the wail.

Junah knows what happened last time... and she let the thought trail off. Junah mentally blushed, if that were possible.

I meant to fall in that... A key turned in the lock and a bolt was withdrawn. Stay hidden, stay alert, he commanded. Sissik sniffed agreement.

Junah remained by the window. The door opened and a man of prodigious girth waddled into the chamber. He was much older than the Mirrorsmith and sported a magnificent beard that spread like a grey tablecloth over his huge belly. His silk robe and jewel-decked ears bespoke a person of consequence. He started when he realised that Junah was naked and harrumphed his displeasure.

"Renn!" he called over his shoulder. The bald man from the inn sauntered into sight. "Have his things been examined yet?"

"Yes, Prefect."

"Was anything found?"

"Just the usual crap."

"Then bring the man's crap here!"

Renn curled his lip behind the Prefect's back and sneered at Junah, rubbing his own temple in the exact place of the Mirrorsmith's injury before sliding from view.

Being unclothed did not bother Junah. Vargo was one of the hottest realms in the Regium and the Mirrorsmith was accustomed to wearing very little next to his skin. In fact, the coarse shirt, leggingss and hooded jerkin he had put on for this sortie into Abilon were an irritation of the first order. The Prefect looked around the room for a perch then slumped onto the bed, fidgeting all the while with his beard. Renn returned a moment later with Junah's clothes and flung them at the Mirrorsmith.

"Now get out," the Prefect snapped at his henchman. Renn looked like he might argue but then spun on his heel and left. The Prefect indicated that Junah should don his garments. Junah deliberately took his time and made a show of checking the contents of his pouch but everything was there, including several gold pieces and his firestick.

"If anything's missing I'll hack the thieving bugger's fingers off myself," growled the Prefect. He exhaled loudly and slapped his thighs, murmuring under his breath. Junah waited. "You should know that I made the request to the Guild for the services of an off-world Mirrorsmith," the Prefect said at last. "Renn was sent to the inn to escort you back here but he was...over eager."

Junah recognised the truth in the statement. He stowed the pouch at his belt and then inclined his head and offered the formal response.

"Magister Junah Venmark answers on behalf of the Guild."

"Magister? You told that...hah, well, never mind." The Prefect wobbled to his feet. "Come, Magister Junah," he waved a ring-girt hand, "I have a tale to tell and I need a drink."

#

They sat together in the Prefect's library before a crackling fire which did little to dispel the chill.

"I'm well aware that Ysreal is considered one of the poorer worlds of the Regium. And not without some justification I might add! But we've always prided ourselves on our independence and are fiercely protective of it, hence the injunctions that limit commerce and traffic to the other realms."

Junah listened to the Prefect drone on, wondering for whose benefit the lesson was.

"The Guild has always recognised the rights of indigenous people," he responded smoothly.

"Quite, quite." The Prefect cleared his throat again and Junah wondered if it was just a bad habit or indicative of a chest complaint. "We have our own Mirrorsmiths too, perfectly competent and versed in all the Lore, but," the Prefect exhaled, "perhaps not competent enough." He looked Junah in the eyes. "Some months ago reports started to come in of strange happenings in the villages south of here. Murders, mutilations, ritual burnings... in fact, just the kind of acts that my predecessors took hundreds of years to stamp out. So I dispatched a party of Judicars to investigate. None of them returned. I sent a larger squad. They vanished too. Finally, I sent out a small army under the command of my eldest son and accompanied by several Mirrorsmiths." He rubbed a hand down his face and clutched his beard. "A week later two of the company were found wandering the shoreline; drooling, giggling and pissing themselves. They gibbered on about strange lights and demons but whatever they had witnessed had driven them quite mad. I ordered the evacuation of the villages between there and Abilon and set up a defensive perimeter to keep the plague, or whatever it is, away from here but I don't know how effective it will be."

"And your son?"

The Prefect aged ten years. "One of the survivors. He's being well cared for but my leech holds out no hope of a recovery. It would have been better if he'd perished."

"How close to a wayportal is the site of the original disturbances?"

"Now there's the rub. As far as I know there isn't a portal for fifty leagues in any direction from where the trouble started."

Junah pondered this. When the Mirror of Creation was shattered by the insane last lord of the Wayfarers, the ancient non-human race whose arcane technology constructed the portals and seeded them throughout the Regium, the fragments were dispersed via that very portal network. The slivers could lay dormant for centuries until a suitable host, human or otherwise, had the misfortune to stumble upon one and become 'infected' by it. Semi-sentient, the pieces of mirror migrated through the host's nervous system to take control and carry out their polluted task. Rather than create and enhance, their purpose was now to destroy and diminish. Outbreaks of unprecedented violence within five leagues of a wayportal were invariably caused by an awakened sliver. Mirrorsmiths, aided by their wails – the only species known to be immune to the Mirror's effects - were trained to track down then extract even the tiniest speck from a host and contain its malign energy.

Junah tipped his beer down his throat.

"I'll need a volunteer to guide me to this village," he said.

"Renn can go. He hails from that region." The Prefect snorted at the less-than-enthusiastic expression on Junah's face. "Don't worry, he'll behave."

"I'm certain he will," stated the other glumly, "but I was hoping for a more agreeable companion to while away the hours with!"

Later that night, before he retired, Junah reported back to the Guildhouse via his comm-crystal. It was barely noon on Vargo and his old friend, Teren Lemmick, was still on duty. When Junah expressed his puzzlement at the Prefect's ruse to get an outrealm Mirrorsmith to Abilon but agreed to continue the mission despite his misgivings, Teren was dubious.

"I don't like the sound of this, Junah. Shall I send you some back-up?"

Junah considered the offer.

"No, not yet but there are a couple of things I could do with."

Teren snorted when Junah finished his request.

"I'll see what I can do," he promised, then added, "in the meantime, Junah, watch your back. If anyone's going to bite your ass it's me!"

#

Two days later, just after sunrise, an immense, leather-winged dacta spiralled out of the roseate clouds and set down in the middle of a desiccated field. After the dust settled, Junah and Renn unbuckled themselves from the reptile's back and slid down onto the ground. The dacta screeched and rolled opal eyes impatiently while they unclipped their gear, its talons raking deep grooves into the brown earth. Junah tossed the fee for the ride up to the dacta's handler.

"Return here at this time for the next three days. Wait for an hour then, if we don't show, take off again," he said. The dacta handler nodded and stowed the purse inside his jerkin.

"Guild Master Lemmick said he'll see I get paid the rest regardless but I'll be here, rely on that," the man confirmed. He waited until Junah and Renn reached the edge of the field then tapped the dacta with a long goad. The reptile beat its wing membranes then launched skywards in a skirl of dirt. When the air cleared once more man and beast were already well out of sight.

Renn spat into the bushes.

"Come on, Matey, we've a long way to go yet."

For the next few hours Junah and Renn tramped across open pasture and patchwork fields but, as the sun began to wester, the landscape altered dramatically. Coils of smoke marked where crops had been torched, or smouldered in the bowels of ravaged homesteads. Animals lay slaughtered in yard and paddock, oozing maggots or feasted on by carrion birds that squawked skywards at the men's approach. Sissik, curled as ever round Junah's neck, mewed her distress.

Junah and Sissik go home now, she pleaded. This a bad place.

Junah was in full agreement. He had been to some devastated areas before but this was the worst in many a year. He desperately wanted to return to Abilon and the safety of the wayportal but retreat was not an option, for him at least.

They had paused by a stream, hoping to refill their flasks, only to find it choked with the bloated corpses of sheep. Beside him, Renn cursed and kicked at the water. The Judicar was becoming more agitated as the miles passed, clearly affected by the sliver's proximity. Junah reckoned that the centre of the discordance must lie quite close now.

"This is as far as you go," he told the other. Renn growled.

"My orders are to get you to Ferivan and that's what I'll do."

Junah shook his head. "No, you stay here. In fact, you should go back to that barn we ate our midday meal in, you'll be safe enough there from Mirror Madness. Your task was to guide me to the source of the trouble and you've done that. If you go any further the chances are you'll turn into a dribbling idiot and be of no use to anyone."

"Don't worry yer pretty head about me, Matey. I ain't no weak-brained ninny like Prefect Yennik's son. I can take care of mesel'."

"I'm not being charitable, believe me. If I have to watch out for you I might end up spelled myself." Junah stroked Sissik's tail and the wail emitted a low purr. Renn's eyes glazed over as deeper, sub-audible notes acted on his hypothalamus.

"Now," said Junah, "do you walk back to that barn under your own steam or do I put you to sleep right here?"

"Damn tricksy shine-merchant!" the Judicar cursed. He sank to his knees, unable to control the urge to doze off. "I'll go, bastard, but you'll regret this, I promise yer!"

Sissik ceased her wailing and released him. Renn clambered to his feet, face redder than a dacta's arse, then he stormed off without a backward glance. Junah was almost sorry to see him go, almost.

The sun's dying rays bathed Ferivan in scarlet gore. It was a typical Abilonian fishing village. Dour stone-built houses perched precariously above the shingle beach on which a motley collection of smacks and wherries were marooned by the tide. Junah approached cautiously from the seaward side, using the boats as cover. He had already evaded several packs of feral villagers, their faces contorted with hatred for all that lived, their rags splattered with the blood of their prey. Junah was feeling the unsettling effects of the sliver's influence himself but Sissik's crooning protected him from the worst of it.

He moved stealthily from cot to cot, clinging to the twilight shadows as he searched for the source of the shouts and jeering that had drawn him to this place. Close to the village centre he spotted a two-storey house, with outside stairs that led up to a balcony. He darted up the steps and peered over the lip of the balustrade.

A baying mob surrounded two crazed combatants who were hacking at each other with cleavers. The ground was soaked, with blood, bowels and other matter, and the two men slipped and slithered in the visceral muck, both caked to the waist in the stuff. A renewed roar drowned the screams of one of the men when his hand flew from his wrist to land in front of a dead-eyed woman. Junah's guts churned as he realised that the entire boundary of the crude arena was marked by mounds of severed limbs and bones. He ducked back down and closed his eyes. This was the vilest manifestation he had ever encountered. Little wonder the Prefect had not wanted to risk any more of his own people.

Sissik trembled on his shoulder and he could feel her little heart pounding. What are you? he chided himself. Man or worm? He suspected that this might prove far more than he could handle alone, despite his reputation. He scooped the wail from around his neck and sat her on his upraised knees.

You know we have to do this, Sissik. He stroked her between the ears. Just promise me that if you sense me leaving you, you'll sing me to death's sleep before the sliver takes me.

The wail's nocturnal eyes were at their widest and he felt he would drown in their liquid brilliance.

Sissik knows what to do she told him but Junah strong, his heart is good.

Junah unclipped her harness and extracted his Magister's ring from the rucksack. It was forged with gold taken from the Great Mirror's frame itself and was both symbol of his authority and a source of added protection. Sissik clambered back onto his shoulder, wrapped her tail firmly round his neck and prepared to wail.

The mob's attention was fully focussed on the combat circle and they did not notice Junah's approach. His body quivered as the sliver's velvety vibrations caressed his skin but, as long as he stayed in contact with Sissik, his mind was shielded from their malignant effect. He activated the subcutaneous crystal at the base of his throat, which served to amplify the wail's humming, and piercingly-clear sounds rippled out to counteract the sliver's spell. Those nearest clutched at their ears and shrieked their dismay but were powerless to block the wail's song. Others lumbered towards Junah, faces twisted with fury, hands ready to rip and tear. Sissik wailed and, like corn before the scythe, wave upon wave of men and women crumpled to the earth till, at the last, a single cursed soul remained upright.

Junah's heart sank. It was a girl-child, perhaps ten years old. Tangled curls framed a pale face dominated by huge brown eyes. She was filthy, emaciated, but even from twenty feet away Junah could feel the alien anger within her. Pulses of hatred lashed his senses, striving to subvert his will.

Sissik's song intensified and Junah sang too, the ancient, eldritch melodies of the Wayfarers, not meant for human voice. The music coiled about the child, forcing back the sliver's corrupt resonance. The girl writhed and squirmed and great, molten tears smeared pathways down her cheeks.

Don' hurt me, mister, please don' hurt me, she begged.

Junah's heart crystallised. He moved on leaden legs until he stood in front of her. She tried to cower away but Junah's will restrained her and he embraced her with his words. Grace, life, joy battled hate, death, destruction and, little by little, the sliver's malign aura retreated before the beauty of the song.

In desperation the sliver thrust out a spear of malevolence into its nearest thrall. The man rose up, a silent, deadly wraith, and swung his bloodied cleaver at Junah's unprotected back. The air swooshed and a bloody ball rolled up against the child's foot.

Crimson ichor from the severed head splattered Sissik's fur. She shrieked, but not from despair.

"Told yer it wer'a bad idea to get rid o' me," Renn smirked and he sheathed his sword with a snick of defiance.

"I never claimed to be infallible," Junah bantered back, then added, "thanks".

A gob of spittle was his only reply.

Junah looked down at the child. With the last of its energy spent, and bound by the weave of Sissik's song, the sliver seethed in impotent rage. Junah sent a prayer to the Mirrorsmiths' patron spirit and plunged his own narrow, silver blade into the child's heart. A primeval scream rent the air but the little girl had been dead from the moment she picked up the shiny glass from the seashore. Junah knelt beside her and summoned the sliver from the girl's flesh. The shard of tainted mirror emerged from the wound at his command and immediately he cocooned it in silver wire to render it harmless for transport. Only when it was stowed in his silk-lined scrip did the tears come, for lives lost and innocence ruined by a mad lord's spite.

#

Teren Lemmick held up the sliver in its silver cage between finger and thumb and shook his head in wonder at the size of it. It was by the far the biggest piece that had been recovered to date. An image of it filled an entire corner of the Desecrated Mirror's frame in the Great Hall of the Guild. The frame's interior was less than a third complete, however, highlighting the length of the task still to be done. Junah was resting, and undergoing compulsory psychotherapy, but rumours of his achievement were already reaching the proportions of legend. Updates from Prefect Yennick reported that the district around Ferivan was recovering; the land faster than the people. Over two thousand citizens had lost their lives and hundreds more were receiving memory healing. As ever, the Guild's victory was bittersweet.

Lemmick replaced the sliver onto its silk cushion. It was scheduled for destruction at midnight, the prescribed time. Sometimes he wondered if they would ever locate all of the slivers or if the people of the Regium were doomed to live in fear as the price of their freedom to travel the worlds.

A chittering and scuffling in the tree outside his window drew Lemmick's attention. Next moment Sissik and Goss, his own wail, tumbled into the chamber chasing after each other's tails like pups and squabbling for possession of a pine cone.

Lemmick laughed until the tears came and washed away the mirror filth.

\-------------------

*About the Author*

Dee Harrison was born in Nottingham, England and brought up on the tales of Robin Hood and nearby Sherwood Forest. From this grew an abiding love for myths and legends. Dee studied medieval history at Nottingham University and decided to create her own myths.

She is currently working on a new series featuring Junah Venmark, Master Mirrorsmith and has written this special short story for Fusion. Her debut novel, The Firelord's Crown, book one in the Firelord's Legacy series, is set to release September, 2013.
Diary of the Gone

by IVAN AMBERLAKE

Chapter 1

Entry #4

January 8

I step inside a Shadow. It's a black-and-white movie with no sound. I watch those who have only a few moments to live. While the rest of the world passes by with blind eyes, I see them dying, screaming into silence, and I just stand and watch death taking them.

The Shadow lasts for only a few moments, and then the movie is over. Color fades in around me, but I know the people I saw will soon be dead.

The knock on the door made me wince, and the knife bit into my index finger. Blood trickled from the deep wound, leaving splotches over the counter.

That wasn't the way my day should have begun.

"Son of a bitch!" I let go of the bread. The knife clattered into the sink.

Not to spill any more drops onto the kitchen counter, I put my finger into my mouth and sucked the blood voraciously. The coppery taste spread over my tongue, my empty stomach rumbling in displeasure.

The knock-knock-knock came again. The source of my severe cut and pain throbbing through my finger.

I crossed the small kitchen to the front door and wrenched at the handle to see my best friend Nathan standing on the porch.

"Ah, it's you," I mumbled, still feasting on my finger. "Come on in."

Though Nathan and I were the same age, I had to raise my head a great deal to look into his blue eyes and at his lopsided smile.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Just cut my finger," I said, my head swimming a bit. I'd never been fond of blood, let alone of my own.

Nathan followed me to the kitchen, where I returned to the counter with my lunch half ready and bloodstained.

"Mmm, looks yum," he said, eyeing my ruined attempt at making a burger.

I scoffed, happy to see that the blood stopped dripping down my finger.

"Anyone home?" he asked, taking a seat on one of the stools.

"Nope. Out of town for the day."

"Good," Nathan said. "I want to show you something."

"What is it?" I opened the freezer to get some frozen French fries, tore the pack open and poured some into a glass bowl.

Nathan knew how to pique my interest—well, more often than not whatever he had to show was terrific, but today I decided to stay cool not to give away my enthusiasm.

"Can't tell you. And it's not here."

"Where is it?"

"In the Swamps," he said as I put the bowl into the microwave oven and turned it on. Nathan picked up a leaf of lettuce next to him and started munching it, looking me right in the eye.

The Swamps. The least desirable place apart from the graveyard and the school I'd attended for nearly a month here in Olden Cross.

"Of course it's in the Swamps. Can it be anywhere else?" I said, trying not to show my apprehension, but the casual nod he gave me was proof he knew how I felt.

"So you're afraid of going there, Cal?" Nathan's lopsided grin only became wider. "I wonder if you're more scared of your mom or the Swamps? Or maybe it's your sister?" He shoved the rest of the lettuce leaf into his mouth.

"What about my sister?" I demanded. "I'm not afraid of her. You know what? Let's go. I only need to grab my parka."

Nathan chuckled as I scooped the hot fries with a napkin. "Do you know you just owned to it?"

"To what?"

"That Mom and Bev scare the bejesus out of you."

"Will you go to hell, Nate?" I said. "Are we going or not?"

"Sure."

I put on my old dark-red parka, scooped the keys from the bowl, and we left.

The wind whistled its mournful song as purple skies loomed lower, grim and forbidding. From what I knew about Olden Cross, the skies were always like this here.

We trudged through the mush of fallen leaves for about a half hour, the ground a mosaic of vibrant red and yellow. Trees swayed their skeletal branches while sponge-like moss shriveled under my feet.

Now that we were approaching the Swamps, my cut finger started throbbing again.

As I took another step, icy water trickled into my new sneakers.

"Dammit!" I jerked my leg up, but the sneaker was already soaked.

"C'mon, Callum," Nathan urged, rolling his eyes. "We're nearly there."

He still hadn't told me what he wanted me to see. Did I have any other choice but to follow him? As we threaded our way through the darkening swamped forest, I wondered why I listened to him and went wherever he wished.

"How much farther are we going?" I asked.

He pointed ahead with his index finger. "It's there."

I hadn't been to the forest very often during the day. I didn't know why, but each time I approached it, goosebumps popped all over my arms and back, and today was no exception. My heart raced like mad, warning me that we'd encroached on someone else's territory. Someone we shouldn't disturb.

Nathan turned his head left and right, then said in a hushed tone, "Wait."

He looked down and I did the same. At first I didn't spot anything out of the ordinary, but when I looked at the withered grass at my feet more closely I knew it was flecked with blood. I gulped, cold fear sliding down my limbs.

"What the hell is that?" I muttered, but Nathan wasn't in the mood to answer any of my questions today.

"Let's go," he just said.

The farther we followed the trail, the more blood there was.

"This is not the worst part," Nathan said, a maniacal glint in his eyes.

"What? Are you kidding me?" I panicked.

Both of us took cautious steps forward.

"Are you sure we should go on?" I asked.

Nathan nodded without saying anything.

"What is there?" I kept firing questions.

"You'll see." Nathan waved at me to keep following him.

The feeling of someone watching us persisted, and I didn't like where this was going. A low buzzing soon filled my head, with a sickly sweet smell tickling my nostrils. The trail led behind a tree, and something told me I'd better not see what was there.

We made a few more steps, and then I gagged at the most horrifying sight I'd ever seen in my life.

There in the grass, in a pool of its own blood, lay a deer, disemboweled, a swarm of flies feasting on its carcass.

The fetid odor hit my nostrils, churning my stomach. I covered my nose and mouth with my sleeve and turned away from its lackluster eyes.

"Gawd!" I moaned, taking a few steps away from the poor animal. "What the hell is this?"

Nathan backed away as well, but kept staring at it, then turned to me. "Cal, the question is what is it doing here? By the looks of it, it's been here awhile. And all the animals left the Swamps years ago. How come this one ended up here?"

Whatever Nate was talking about, I didn't care.

"I don't know, man. I hope that's all that you wanted to show me 'cos I really feel like I'm going to throw up," I said, still covering my nose not to breathe in the putrid stench.

A stick snapped a few yards to the left of us, and the world lost the little color it had. It was the worst thing that could happen to me, my gift and my curse—the Shadow.

A dark-haired boy with a thin, pale face stood staring at me. A deep gash ran down the left side of his face, his neck bruised to a dark purple. As he wheezed fog escaped his cracked lips.

I looked around, and to my horror there was no Nathan, no animal rotting under the tree. No one except that boy.

He extended his hand to me, when of their own accord lacerations started showing on his skin. Circles, triangles and numbers came out, as if there was someone invisible hurting him. Tears beaded his dead eyes as he sobbed.

Then he opened his mouth wider and shouted, "Run!"

What made it more frightening was that he shouted in Nathan's voice. The colors returned, together with the stench. Someone yanked me by the sleeve, dragging me away from the place.

Where the boy had been, stood a woman I'd seen once before. Mrs. Palmer. The school librarian.

Dressed in long, black clothes, she reminded me of a raven that had taken a human form and forgotten to shift back.

I knew that we'd better get the hell out of there. Raw instinct to survive spurred me to run. Nate tugged at the sleeve of my parka harder, and I let my fear claw hold of me.

We sprinted away, no longer caring about the pools of water in our way. Spray of droplets scattered in all directions as our sneakers pounded the ground. I jumped over a log of a fallen tree, and my foot stuck into the mud. I dropped onto the mossy ground, staining my jeans with green.

"Oh, crap!"

Nathan helped me up, and I tried to rub the dirt off, but only made it worse. Panting, we rushed towards the edge of the wood; trees seemed to close in on us, and I thought the wood would never end.

Finally we made it, exiting a few hundred meters away from my home.

"Holy crap! What the hell was with you?" Nathan asked, then coughed.

"I don't know," I said, air whooshing out of my burning lungs. "It was so weird."

"She just appeared out of nowhere. And you stared at her without blinking. You two scared the hell out of me!" he said, taking a look back.

I looked back as well, glad to see only the skeletons of leafless trees, and no Mrs. Palmer.

"Do you want my advice, pal?" Nathan said. "Never approach that woman. She's mental. I wouldn't be surprised to find out it's she who kidnapped Greg."

Greg. Greg Thornby.

I remembered the story well. Greg Thornby had gone missing a few days before Mom, Beverly, and I arrived at Olden Cross. After a few months' search his body hadn't been found, and the inquiry still continued.

I'd never met the boy, but I suspected it was him standing there with his hands stretched towards me. The image still caused goosebumps all over me.

What if Nate was right, and it was Mrs. Palmer who killed Greg?

After a few minutes we slowed down a bit, still breathless and shaking. I looked a real mess, with the green stains and dirt over my jeans.

Now I'll have to come up with something to tell my mom, I thought grimly.

My thoughts were interrupted by the voice I hated more than the sound of nails screeching against a blackboard.

"Well, well, well, little Callie's got poo all over himself. Did you do it to him, Rushmore?"

Cheering and laughter followed the remark.

I turned around, my teeth clenched. A group of thugs were closing in on us. Stan Crosby, the boy who spoke, was in the center, flanked by four guys on either side. They made my life a living hell. During the short time I'd been in Olden Cross, he'd given me a couple of black eyes, tripped me whenever he saw me, and humiliated me in every possible way. The son of the school principal, he easily got away with it, and I didn't feel like blabbering about every one of his pranks to my mom. Just had to live with it.

Nathan took a step towards the group. "Back off, Stan, or—"

"What? Are you going to kick me?" Stan's group produced another round of cheering and whistling.

"I definitely will." Nate balled his fists and took another step.

I grabbed him by the sleeve and whispered, "He isn't worth it. You'll only get another detention." To my relief, Nate didn't argue.

"Right, Rushmore, listen to the loser." Stan folded his arms, a smug smile playing on his face. "You're lucky we're not in the mood to kick your sorry asses today. But we will be next time." He turned to his cronies. "Come on, guys, let's go."

They rushed past us, Stan giving me a hard push with his shoulder. I tried my best not to flinch, even though the push hurt as if his shoulder was made of rock.

As their silhouettes and voices retreated into the distance, Nate and I stood watching them.

For a few minutes, I forgot about what had happened at the Swamps. Though lightning never struck twice, something told me my bad luck for the day wasn't over yet. If bad things were bound to happen to me, today would be the day.

"Let's go," Nate said. "Wayne and Audrey are waiting for us."

*

Olden Cross was a small godforsaken town, fringed for the most part by an ancient forest. The old townsfolk said it used to be a village whose first two streets formed a cross. As time passed, more people arrived here and the village turned into a small town. A few more streets appeared, but the name stuck.

The two-story cottage where my mom, sister, and I moved to belonged in a row of cottages that stood closest to the woods.

Nathan and I veered off the road, taking a turn away from my house and the forest. As the horrors of today played back in my mind, I decided to break the silence.

"Are we going to tell the guys what happened?" I asked.

"Sure. We need to tell them about the animal and Mrs. Palmer. There's something weird going on, and we've got to find out everything."

He offered me a humorless smile, a sign he was being serious.

That was Nathan. Never reasonable, always dragging himself and those close to him into trouble.

"Do you think she killed that animal?" I asked.

"Definitely." He furrowed his brow, his lips squeezed in a grim line.

I started tsking and snapping my fingers, which I knew irritated him, but at least it helped me distract myself from the haunting images of the boy in the forest.

"By the way, here they are," Nathan said.

Wayne and Audrey. Perhaps the two people I envied most of all in the whole world. Only a year older than me, they already held hands in public, kissed at the back of our school, and did who-knew-what-other things that I, the loner of Olden Cross as I called myself, couldn't. I'd never even had a girlfriend. For a fifteen-year-old I had way too many things wrong about me, yet this one made me probably the most miserable.

Everyone at school compared them to Romeo and Juliet, and now that I saw them holding hands I wished it was me with Audrey instead of Wayne.

"Hey, guys!" Nathan called.

I shot an uncomfortable look at Audrey, mumbling a hardly audible hello, then looked down as if in shame.

Well, did I mention I felt like a total loser when girls were around? With Audrey I was a real mess. She was special, a flawless angel with perfect auburn hair, and an aroma of peaches around her. But what chance did I have to date such a girl? Zilch.

Wayne looked us up and down, curiosity twinkling in his eyes. "Where've you been? Looks like you had fun today." Both he and Audrey smiled.

"We've got to tell you something," Nathan said enthusiastically, as if what we'd gone through was something enjoyable.

"Maybe you'll tell us when we get to the Underground?" Wayne asked, smiling.

"Okay then," Nate replied.

"Erm, sorry, guys," I said. "I just realized ... I promised Mom I'd come home early." Though that was a lie, everyone seemed to believe it.

Nathan shrugged. "All right, man. If you change your mind, you know where to find us."

I nodded, turned around and ran home as fast as my sprained ankle let me.

Chapter 2

Entry #15

February 12

I gave up on the idea of interfering with the Shadows. It's no use. Every time something stops me: either I get a detention on the day I know someone will die, or Mom takes me and Bev to town. There's nothing I can do. It's as if they don't want me to. As if they want me to stare at their agony before they die.

I can't. I just can't.

A strip of mauve tinted the sky where it met the horizon. It was already dusk. Days in Olden Cross were too short.

An old Ford Explorer stood next to the garage and the windows on the first floor blazed with lights. Mom and Bev had come back from town.

I hoped they wouldn't notice my anxiety, though I could barely control my heavy breathing. I would probably have to sneak past them, then change my clothes and hide the stained jeans under my bed.

Hurrying across the yard and up the porch steps, I was glad today would soon become history.

As soon as I entered the house, a voice chimed from the kitchen, "Sissy-pants is home!"

I appreciated my sister's sense of humor, only I wished she'd never have to exercise it on me.

"Stop it, Bev," a defensive voice—a lower pitch but still almost the same—said with disapproval.

Mom was the only one who could make Bev shut up, and that was what I needed right now. Both came to meet me. Bev propped her shoulder against the doorframe, her pouted lips and folded arms very much the usual form of greeting me. This time she added rolling her eyes to her 'Hate-you-Callum' etiquette.

"What's with your clothes?" Bev asked right away.

Only then did Mom notice. Thanks, Bev, I'll pay you back some day!

"Is it that Crosby boy again?" Mom asked. "I promise I'll give that ill-bred boy a dressing-down when I see him next time."

"It's not him, Mom. Please let it go," I said, rushing past them towards the stairs. "I just fell off Nate's bike, and by the way, it doesn't hurt, thanks for asking."

Mom's eyes bored into me, and I did my best to stare back without blinking. As if she'd fallen for it, she said, "Okay then. Change and go wash your hands. We're having pork roast, green beans, and creamed corn."

Mom went back to the kitchen, leaving me and my sister alone. Bev stared at me, her lips pressed in a thin line. "And a pinch of rat poison for you, sissy-pants!" she hissed. "I know that Nathan doesn't have a bike."

"Bite me!" I said in a hushed tone, and sprinted up the stairs.

*

For the rest of the evening I managed to act as if nothing had happened. No carcass, no Shadow, no Mrs. Palmer.

Mom chattered excitedly about their drive to the city while I did my best to show that I was listening by inserting 'I see' and 'Great' once in a while. As soon as I finished dinner, I went back to my room and locked the door.

The clock ticked on the desk.

Moonlight flooded through the dusty windowpanes so I could see everything without switching on the lamps. Posters of Breaking Benjamin and Linkin Park hung on the walls; clothes, school books and CDs were strewn all over the place along with crumpled papers and my bag.

I limped across the room and collapsed onto my bed. My leg still hurt from the fall. I massaged my ankle, only causing it to hurt more.

In all my life, I'd never been so scared of falling asleep. I'd seen Shadows since I hit nine, but today's Shadow sent shivers all over me.

I tried not to think about the whole thing, but the harder I tried, the easier dark thoughts crept into my head. I turned, pulling the soft blanket over myself. Doubtful protection from nightmares. How naïve I'd been to think that my life would get better if we moved to a place where nothing ever happened.

Seemed like the right place for me. Until today. I clenched my jaw tight.

Lying full-length, I stretched my hand behind the headboard where I kept my secret. My fingers scrabbled through dust and cobwebs before I finally got it. I crouched, then took a flashlight from under my bed and shone it onto the thing in my lap, whisking the dust off it. An old diary.

I had found it a few years ago among the piles of books and magazines that cluttered our basement back in Phoenix. Even though it had a few pages torn out, it pulled me to itself as if by some mysterious force. Or maybe it was because of my father's name—Aiden Blackwell—that was written on the back page. I'd never known Dad, and every time I asked Mom about him, she usually stared at me with coldness, offering non-committal replies that had me drop the subject.

If I don't write about the Shadow, he'll come. The diary is the only thing that can stop the dead, I thought, and opened it to the back page. Handwritten scrawl beneath my father's name went: Callum Blackwell. A bit lower the legend ran in smaller letters, in the hope that anyone who might come across the diary wouldn't see it: Diary of the Gone.

Back in Phoenix I'd needed to do something—anything—to stop the Shadows, and surprisingly writing about it had worked for me. With time I'd realized writing in it gave me the calm I couldn't get out of anything else.

I took a ballpoint pen, well chewed at the top, and turned several dog-eared pages filled with the same illegible handwriting where I used to put down all the horror I'd seen.

When I was about to jot my first word, a blast of wind rattled the windowpanes, startling me out of my wits.

Damn, what was that?

With a trembling hand, I scribbled: Entry #153, October 27.

Someone knocked on the door, and I knew they had come for me. It wasn't Mom or Beverly as there was no shadow under the door. A soft, hardly audible tap-tap-tap came, then the door knob turned a bit.

Why have they come so early?

Freaked out, I focused on the diary, trying to shut off my senses.

They are here again, behind the door, trying to get in. It's not like them. Why are they breaking the rules?

The wind whistled outside, the rattling of the windowpanes even more persistent. I bent closer to the page, scribbling frantically.

Nathan found a corpse of a deer in the forest. He showed it to me today. When we were standing there everything turned to monochrome gray, and I saw a boy not far from me. He had strange symbols appearing over his hands. I have no idea what they meant. The Shadow was different this time. So much different.

They didn't go away. Writing about it didn't work. Why? Whoever was behind the door started scraping its surface with nails that were definitely larger than Bev's. I clenched my teeth and pressed my hands to my ears, but the scraping didn't stop.

Go on writing, Callum, I told myself. Only the words didn't come easily tonight.

The boy was looking at me. He wanted to tell me something. What does it mean? Does it mean that Greg Thornby is dead?

As if answering the question, the scraping and the wind stopped. A chill slithered over my body, my heart thumping in total silence.

"Callum," a voice I'd never heard called, coming from inside my head. "Callum, let me in."

I pressed myself into the corner of the bed, awaiting my doom.

Please, leave me alone, was my next line. Then the door burst open, and consciousness dimmed. Just as my mind slowly drifted into welcoming blackness, I saw a silhouette advancing on me. It wasn't Greg. It was a girl, only I couldn't see her face, her features blurry in the dark, her long hair streaming down to her waist.

She came close to me and laid her bony hand on my shoulder, whispering, "Thank you for setting me free."

Chapter 3

Entry #28

May 26

I don't know why Shadows haunt me. Why me of all people? If it's a gift, then it's a lousy one.

When I woke up, the first thing I did was check my ankle. It was giving me more and more trouble. The flesh was bruised to a purple color, with skin sore to the touch. The memory of yesterday's experience combined with the deep, purple traces creeped the hell out of me.

"Callie, breakfast's ready!" Mom screeched from below. Whatever horrors I'd gone through yesterday night, 'Callie' sent me into motion—I loathed when people called me that, mostly because Stan Crosby loved taunting me with it.

"Coming!" I yelled, grabbing the diary from the bed. Should I take it to school today? What if I see another Shadow on the way?

I opened it where I'd put my last entry, took a pen and started scribbling hastily.

Entry #154

October 28

The dead started talking to me. This time it was a girl. I have no idea what's going on here.

"Callie! Hurry up!" Mom shouted from the kitchen.

"Coming!" I yelled, even louder that time, then bent my head to the page to jot down a few more sentences.

Mom's calling me. I'm off to school. Hope I'm not going to see more of the dead today.

Bev entered my room, and I barely had enough time to shut the diary and hide it behind my back. "We're not going to wait on you forever, Callie," she said with a sly smile.

Damn, she saw it! I cursed, not really sure what to do next.

Bev flashed a wider grin at me, her eyes screaming, "Gotcha!"

"You should knock before you enter. D'you know it's polite?" I glared at her.

"Oh, I just wanted to make sure you're not dead." Bev's lips curved down, as if she was annoyed to find me still breathing. "You know Mom's been calling you?"

"Yeah, I'm not deaf, thank you. Will you leave me alone now?"

She lifted her neatly plucked eyebrows, giving me her usual you're-totally-mental look, then turned on her heel and left, her hair streaming in her wake.

To call us cat and dog would be such an understatement. Not only were we different in appearance—I had blue eyes and fair hair while she had Mom's dark-brown eyes and black hair—but we also could hardly bear each other's presence for five minutes.

Back in Phoenix I'd had a hard time tormented by Shadows at least once a week. Bev didn't try to make me feel better. With each year my 'nightmares' got worse, and doctors suggested that we move to a less stressful environment. That was the time I'd found the old diary. Whereas it helped me not to see Shadows for some time, Bev did her best to make my existence a living hell.

Well, I was the reason she had to be away from her friends. Unlike her, I didn't have any, so I was all for moving from Phoenix, no longer paying attention to her sulking and sending silent curses my way whenever she saw me.

Putting my diary into the bag, I went downstairs and took my usual seat, opposite Bev. "What's for breakfast, Mom?" I asked, ignoring my sister's scathing look.

"Bacon and eggs, sweetheart." Mom was fussing in the kitchen while we were sitting in the adjacent room. The divine smell of bacon reached my nostrils, and I took a long breath.

"Any plans for today?" Bev asked me.

"Since when do you care?" I said as Mom entered with two steaming platefuls that she put in front of us.

"Thank you," Bev and I chanted in unison.

After Mom left the room, Bev said, "I just want to make sure you're not going to use my make-up ... again." She tilted her head and drummed on the table with her long well-manicured nails.

"You'll never let it go, will you? An'one's 'llowed one m'ssake," I said, chewing.

"One mistake? What about my shampoos and lotions?" she nearly screeched but kept her voice low for Mom not to hear.

All right, I always wanted to know what it felt like to be a girl. Curiosity got the better of me. Now I knew it was no good: no good could come from borrowing my sister's make-up and using her lipstick when she came in and found it smeared all over my face.

"You know, I'm not even sure if I should use my bath sponges anymore," she said. "Have you tested those too?"

I nearly choked on the bacon and had to gulp it without chewing. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Hmm, let me think. Have I ever even seen you with a girl?" She hit me below the belt.

"Nope. That's 'cause you're hanging out with that jerkface Terry Haubert all the time!" I knew her weak spot and it was high time to sting her.

"No, I'm not!" she hissed. "And if you ever call him jerkface again ..." Her eyes narrowed and glinted with hatred.

"Then what? What will you do?"

She leaned in to me. "I'll tell Mom you go outside at night," she said very quietly, venom seeping through her voice.

She got up, went to the kitchen and returned with a plate of pancakes. She didn't sit down at the table, but went upstairs instead.

"Leaving already?" I chanted.

Bev answered by banging the door real hard. I did get under her skin this time.

My good mood was tainted when I spotted today's paper on the kitchen counter.

I came to take it, then leafed through and found what I thought I would find. The picture of the missing boy. Greg Thornby.

It was the same boy that I'd seen in the Shadow.

*

Though I hated school, I knew I'd better go today, otherwise Mom would ground me. No friends, no Facebook, no movies. She probably thought that was the best way for me to become a normal person.

Everything was close to home in Olden Cross. The school was just a five-minute walk, but I had to walk part of the way past Mrs. Palmer's old cottage, so I made a detour around Montague Street.

"Hey, Callum! Wait!" a familiar voice behind me called.

It was Nathan. Dressed in khaki trousers and a black sweatshirt, he walked with a confidence I always lacked. He raised his hand for a high five, and I smacked it with mine.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "You never go to school this way."

"Um, nothing. Just taking a walk." How lame! "What's up with you?"

"Nothing much. It's a shame you didn't go with us last night. I told the guys about yesterday, and everyone asked if you are okay."

"Why's that?" I asked.

"Well, I mentioned that Mrs. Palmer stared at you without blinking. Still have goosebumps all over me."

Great, now they'll think I'm as crazy as Mrs. Palmer, I thought.

"I wish I'd come with you. I didn't feel well, sorry," I said.

Nathan turned to me, his eyebrows knotted. "I thought you promised Mom to come home early."

"Oh, yeah. That as well." You have to remember your lies better, I scolded myself.

Nathan snorted. "You're being weird, man. By the way, here's an idea. How about you and I skip double Chemistry today and go back to the Swamps?"

"What?" I asked, recoiling. "Seems like you don't remember yesterday."

"We've got to take another look at it," he pressed.

The hair on the back of my neck bristled. "Thanks, but no, thanks." I squirmed. "Besides, remember what Mrs. Wharton said? 'I'll make you clean all the phials and test tubes in my laboratory, Blackwell, if you miss another class'."

"The old hag says that to everyone. She'll survive if you skip it."

He was always like this—too hard to say no to. I did want to know what the hell was going on there. On the other hand, the idea of seeing Greg Thornby made me shake with nerves.

"Next time maybe," I said, seeing Nathan knot his brows.

"You sure?"

"Yes." I slapped him on the shoulder. "See you later."

Nathan grumbled, "Blow the old hag a kiss, okay?"

"I will." I winked at him and entered the school gate, feeling sorry that I didn't go with Nathan.

Chapter 4

Entry #26

May 3

He's sitting right next to me as I write about him. He's never blinked yet, his eyes on me all the time. His skull is fractured where the windshield had hit it, blood seeping down the side of his head.

A couple days ago I came across a Shadow with a boy my age being knocked over by a car. His body was thrown a few yards away from the vehicle, as if feather-light. By the unnatural position of his arms and legs I knew he died on impact. The driver was so wasted he barely managed to get out of his car. People shouted around me, pushing their way to the immovable body lying face-down. Women cried, crouching over him.

And now he's here, sitting next to me. Why do I see him? Like the others, he never talks. Just stares unblinking and that's it.

I know that when I finish writing this sentence he'll be gone. They are all gone once I've mentioned them in the diary.

P.S. Yep. I was right. He's gone.

Good night, Callum. Sweet dreams.

I didn't know why I remembered that boy today during Chemistry. Maybe because Mrs. Wharton did a great job ignoring me, and once in a lifetime she didn't pester me.

I kept asking myself why I was the one seeing them. Maybe the dead had come to me to say I could have saved them? With that boy everything had happened at the end of the school day, just when I was in detention.

I'd got used to them being around. But even after they were gone, I couldn't stop thinking about them. How could I? They'd become part of my life. Part of me.

The bell rang, and I scooped my books and left the classroom. The rest of the day was as gray as the skies.

The storm clouds formed a purple, menacing line that unhurriedly advanced on Olden Cross.

It's going to rain soon, I thought grimly. It rained for the most part in this sodden place, as if sunlight and color were taboo. No wonder animals left the nearby forest long ago.

I zipped up my parka. The wind picked up and ruffled my hair.

"Look who's here!" I heard a voice that haunted me as much as the Shadows these days. For once in a lifetime I wished I'd crossed a Shadow rather than come across Stan and his friends again.

Just ignore them, I told myself. Walk and don't listen. They just want to make you feel scared.

The gang caught up with me in a matter of seconds, their bursts of laughter making me jump a bit.

"Callie, where's your boyfriend?" Stan sniggered, much to the delight of the other guys.

I sped up my pace, trying to break away from them when Stan tripped me, and I toppled head-first.

The group erupted in jubilation, and I couldn't take it anymore.

"You're gonna regret this, you scumbag," I managed through gritted teeth as I got up. I'd never known I could say this to Stan, but here the words escaped my lips, and part of me knew I'd be eating sand any minute soon.

The laughing stopped altogether.

Stan's face turned red. "What did you just say?" He clenched and unclenched his fists.

"He said, 'You're gonna regret this, you scumbag'," a voice from behind the group said.

The gang parted to show Wayne and Audrey. Even though jealous as hell of Wayne holding Audrey's hand, I was thankful for their sudden appearance.

"Didn't you hear him?" Wayne locked eyes with Stan who turned livid.

Apart from his dad, Stan was afraid of only one person—Wayne. No one had cared to elaborate why, but Stan shut up whenever Wayne would come in sight.

"We'll see who's gonna regret this," Stan snarled. Without another word, he and his gang left.

Wayne came up to me and clapped me on the shoulder. "We're right in time, aren't we?"

"Thanks," I said. "You saved me."

"Bastards must know where they belong." Wayne flashed a grin as he brushed his long hair behind the ears. "Stan's a bucketful of crap. I need to remind him about it more often."

Audrey planted a kiss on Wayne's cheek, and I turned away from them, not sure what to do.

"Are you coming to the Underground with us?" Audrey asked in her melodious voice; it was sweeter than honey.

"Erm..." I hesitated, looking sideways at the approaching storm cloud. "I'm afraid I'll have to pass."

They exchanged glances that I couldn't read, then we parted ways. I walked towards the house, the swelling masses of purple encroaching faster than I expected, darkening the world to near twilight.

An occasional drop caressed my face when I entered the yard and went though the entrance door. After a small talk with Mom, I went upstairs and locked myself in so that Bev wouldn't bother me.

Nathan didn't drop in, nor did he call. Must have been busy with the Swamps' explorations. I hoped he wouldn't get in this rain.

I unpacked my bag and hid the diary where it belonged, behind my bed.

Lightning flashed and thunder pealed, followed by a lulling pitter-patter of the rain.

To my surprise, I hit the pillow and fell asleep as soon as I closed my eyes. I didn't have any nightmares that night.

The next day I woke up rested. The rain still pelted against the panes, driving slanted streaks of water at the glass and turning the world monochrome.

There's no way my sneakers will last in such weather, I thought, pursing my lips.

I grabbed my school bag without checking on the books I needed to take, and went downstairs.

My good mood suffered a blow when I saw Bev. It got bruised even more when I found out Mom had left for the city. I grabbed a sandwich and poured myself a glass of orange juice.

"Can't you make it half a day without Mom?" Bev screwed her eyes, her lips curved in a condescending smile.

"Why d'you keep mocking me?" I finally wanted to dot the i's and cross the t's with her. I'd had enough of her picking at me. "You've got yourself a boyfriend here, and back in Phoenix you had squat. You have way more friends here than back in Phoenix."

"That's why," she replied, pointing at me with her index. I raised an eyebrow at her. "Because you keep reminding me about it. I like it better when you sit with your mouth shut."

She rose and headed for the door, taking an umbrella from the stand. The only umbrella left.

"Hey, aren't you going to wait for me?" I asked, finishing my sandwich.

She smirked. "You wish." Turning the door knob, she exited, leaving me alone in the gray room.

Avoiding the pools on the way, I got to the school gates where Nathan and I usually met. My hair and clothes were saturated with rain, but I'd already got used to it.

Students passed me by, but Nathan wasn't among them. Soon I was left alone in the rain, and I had nothing to do but enter the building.

Why didn't Nathan show up? He'd never skipped two days in a row. Maybe he got ill? Anyway, I didn't like it.

My first class was American Literature. With twenty-five students clogged up in a small room, it got stuffy and steamy within minutes.

As usual I sat at the back, glad to be forgotten. There I could let my mind wander away from the topic of today's class.

First I inspected my fellow students—Jill Spenser fidgeting with her blonde pigtails, Bob Delaney nearly dozing off, the rest pretending to enjoy Mr. Jespersen's euphoria. I peered through the misted windowpane, finding the outside gray more interesting than Mr. Jespersen's speech.

The rain lashed even harder, and I began to worry about how I would get home without umbrella if it didn't stop. Drops trickled in irregular lines smearing the world into gray-white blobs.

Yet, rain didn't bother me as much as an empty seat next to me.

Where's Nate gone?

Just as Mr. Jespersen was about to erupt with more enthusiasm—if possible—there came a gentle knock on the door, and a senior student poked her head inside. It was Sandrine Something, I'm not good with last names. She tiptoed in and whispered a few words to the teacher, placing a scrap of paper in his hands.

Mr. Jespersen furrowed his eyebrows. His features darkened, the corners of his mouth curving down. With all enthusiasm washed away, he cleared his throat. "Attention, please!" The murmuring stopped as the teacher's stern eyes swept over the students' faces. "This is urgent. Has anyone talked to Nathan Rushmore within the last forty-eight hours?"

I straightened up in my seat. Tense silence spread through the classroom like an infection, magnifying the drumming of the pouring rain.

"His parents reported him missing this morning, so if you know anything about where he might be, please tell us."

Mr. Jespersen and Sandrine looked expectant at the silent crowd when a wheezing sound escaped my lips, "I've seen him—"

Chairs scraped against the floor surface, making me grimace. My own chair suddenly became very uncomfortable to sit on, and I fidgeted nervously.

The teacher turned to me.

"Yes, Callum?" he said.

Damn it, I cursed myself.

"He was here yesterday. Before classes, I mean. I saw him." My voice produced a vibrato, and I clenched my sweating fists.

"Then, Callum, you should probably go with Sandrine and talk to Chief Coleman in Principal Crosby's office, so as not to interrupt our class."

Great! Meeting with the Crosbys must be my thing, I thought without much enthusiasm. Scooping my belongings, I shoved them into my bag, then got up to leave. Everyone stared at me, and I looked down to avoid my classmates' eyes. I did my best to hurry out of the classroom as fast as possible.

*

Sandrine and I walked down the murky corridor without saying a word. I always felt uncomfortable when left alone with a person I didn't know, and now was not an exception. Not paying me the slightest attention, she quickened her pace, and I had a difficult job keeping up with her.

As if she wants to get rid of me, I thought dismally while scurrying after her.

Heavy currents of water flowed down the windows reducing the depressing scenery to a blur. The image of Nathan going away from me towards the forest embedded firmly into my mind, seeping into the cracks between my thoughts and imprinting itself there.

I should have come with him, I thought.

Principal Oliver Crosby's office was at the end of the corridor, away from the classrooms and the noise generated by the students.

We were nearly there when one of the windows rattled frantically, the same way as the night before when I was sitting locked in my room.

Someone's hand was clinging to the surface on the outer side of the window, as if they were trying to push the window like a door to let themselves in. What the hell is that?

In panic, I took the bag off my back, and clutched it in front of me as a protective shield. The diary inside would keep me safe. I really hoped it would. The hand's fingers started scratching the glass more fiercely, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Hey," Sandrine called. "Are you okay?"

I couldn't hear the scratching anymore so I ventured to open one eye, then the other. She stared at me, her eyebrows knotted in alarm.

I didn't move or speak.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"N-no?" I tried to act as if nothing had happened.

I didn't care what Sandrine might think about me. My behavior could be put down to nervousness before entering the Principal's office after all.

"Let's go then," she said, a bit annoyed.

I ventured a look at the window, but the hand was gone.

It has to be my morbid imagination, I tried to soothe my nerves, still holding my bag with a bit too much force.

Sandrine knocked gently on the door, and a muffled voice followed, "Come in, please."

We entered a rather shabby-looking office, with a threadbare fitted carpet and ochre washed-out wallpaper that gave the room the sepia quality of old photographs. Even a few silver cups sitting atop an old bookshelf looked inconspicuous in this gloominess.

Except for the Principal, there was a broad-shouldered man of about forty, grim-looking, a pen and notebook in his hands.

Both men switched their attention to us, and my stomach gave a severe jolt as the policeman looked me up and down. I had a strange feeling that his eyes saw more than I wanted.

Principal Crosby gave me a wan smile and pointed to an old vacant swivel chair opposite the chief's place. "Take a seat, please."

I searched the principal's face for any kind of a clue as to what was going on. His red-rimmed eyes and a forehead lined with worry didn't mean anything good. No wonder, with the news of a second boy gone, no one would feel swell, would they?

Still I was amazed that this humble man was the father of a jerk like Stan. I couldn't see any resemblance between him and the Evil One. Boy, I was grateful for that.

As I sat down into the uncomfortable chair, I sniffed an odor of nicotine coming from the man next to me.

Mr. Crosby turned to Sandrine with another mirthless smile. "Thank you, dear. You may go back to your class."

Sandrine nodded her head, and tiptoed out of the office.

Principal Crosby took a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his forehead. Another bad sign. "Callum," he broke the silence, "this is Chief Officer Geoffrey Coleman. He's currently investigating Greg Thornby's and Nathan Rushmore's disappearances."

It surprised me a bit that Mr. Crosby remembered my name, though probably it was because of my mom's visits and complaints about Stan beating me.

My palms sweated as I took a look at Chief Coleman. The scariest thing about him was that he looked absolutely ordinary to me, but there was something about his eyes saying, 'I know you are keeping something from me, and I want you to own up.'

"As far as I know, you and Nathan sit at the same desk," Mr. Crosby said.

"Yes." I nodded, then added, "Sir."

The Principal nodded as well. "What can you tell us about Nathan?"

I described him as an outgoing person who always helped me out.

Chief Coleman cut me short. "Has he ever mentioned to you that he wanted to leave home for awhile? Maybe there were some problems between him and his parents?"

"Not that I know of, no. Mr. and Mrs. Rushmore love him," I said.

I fidgeted in my seat, wiggling from side to side.

"Yes, they do, and they're worried about Nathan," he went on in a deep, husky voice, "so we are going to search for him as soon as possible." He shifted his weight from one elbow to the other. "Do you remember when you saw Nathan the last time?"

Though that was an easy one, my tongue was dry. "Yesterday morning. Just before the classes," I said.

The officer jotted something down in his notebook.

"Did he mention where he might be going?"

"He said he was going to the woods."

"He wasn't going to his classes then." The officer raised an eyebrow at me.

"No. Well, he does that sometimes. When he's bored."

"Hmm, is there any specific place in the woods where he could go? Perhaps some place where you gather together?"

"We went to the Swamps a few times." I didn't mention the Underground. Sure we could check it without the police. If I told Chief Coleman about our hideout, Nathan wouldn't approve.

Then it hit me: the Underground didn't matter. Nothing pretty much mattered, except the fact that I might never get to see Nate alive again. Before that time I'd never even considered that. I lived in a world where only strangers got hurt, only strangers died. Not the ones who mattered the world to me.

The chief frowned. "The Swamps then," he muttered, jotting it down in his notebook. All along I'd had a feeling he might know something to catch me off guard later. The more questions he asked, the less confident I became.

"So you are saying you saw Nathan yesterday morning?" he asked.

I agreed another time.

"I think you need to tell him, Geoffrey," Mr. Crosby cut in.

"Yes, I will, Oliver. Everyone will find out anyway." I didn't like it where both of them were going. "Callum, Nathan returned home yesterday night. Then he went to his room. This morning Mr. and Mrs. Rushmore reported him missing. We came to their place and searched his room. There was blood on his pillow. Someone must have broken in and kidnapped him, although Nathan's parents didn't hear anything."

Blood on his pillow. Suddenly, the room spun around. I knew what the officer's words meant, and a lump lodged in my throat.

Nathan was dead. Simple as that. Who could have done this?

Tears threatened to well up in my eyes. I blinked a few times to stifle them. I didn't want Mr. Crosby and Chief Coleman to see me cry right there, though I was shaken by the officer's words.

I answered a few more questions like a soulless machine, my thoughts focused on the images of a hand pressed against the glass, on the image of a faceless shadow forcing my friend out of the house. I felt sick.

"We are going to start an official investigation today, Oliver, but its progress might be hampered by the thunderstorms that are coming," the officer said at the end of our meeting.

Principal Crosby thanked him for the assistance, and after their firm handshake Chief Coleman left.

Glued to my chair, I didn't move. Left alone with Mr. Crosby, I was eager to be with anyone else rather than him, but the man wasn't in a hurry to let me go.

When I looked up at him, I thought he must have aged a couple decades within half an hour, the lines on his forehead so deep. I knew he wanted to say something, but every time he opened his mouth something stopped him. At last he said, "I'm sorry Stan is treating you like this."

I looked down, back to my hands, still wondering how these two people could be father and son.

"And I'm sorry about Nathan," he went on. "If you need anything, Callum, you are always welcome here."

"Thank you, sir," I mumbled.

I grabbed my bag then stood up to leave, and with the corner of my eye I noticed Mr. Crosby drying his eyes with the back of his hand.

Chapter 5

Entry #44

October 29

There are so many things I miss in life. They are like the pages missing from this diary—I'll never know what was written there. The same way I'll never learn what it means to have a father. Even that bastard Stan has one. But in our house any talk about my father is taboo.

Sometimes Mom says I act like him, but that usually happens when I do something she doesn't approve of: stay locked up in my room all the time, not sharing anything with her, pick on Bev (and who really picks on whom here?).

I don't think she's fair with me. I mean I've never seen Aiden. His name: that's pretty much the only thing I know about him. Why does Mom make me feel guilty about me being like Aiden? I guess I'll never know.

The news of Nathan missing and blood found in his room spread like fire across our town. Lucky as I am, the fact that I was the last one to have seen him spread faster than influenza virus. During the classes and in the cafeteria everyone eyed me with a mixture of suspicion and sympathy.

Stan and his gang stopped stalking me for a while, but every time we bumped into each other, he gave me a smile of a million-dollar man. That bastard.

Nathan had been missing for five days, and Mr. and Mrs. Rushmore were distraught about the lack of news. Principal Crosby and Officer Coleman arranged a parent-teacher conference where they highly recommended against letting children stay outside after dark. Of course, no one was allowed to go to the woods.

That clashed with my recent plan to go to the Swamps, and I knew that whatever Mom would tell me, I would find a way to go there.

But it wasn't Mom or Bev that stopped me. The rain persisted with each passing day, and there was no way I could go out in such weather.

This morning I woke up to the same unfriendly world and only wished to be away from everyone. Today was Friday, and Mom sometimes let me stay at home when I pretended to be sick. Hoping to grab some food, I cautiously went towards the stairs, but Mom was there, and she heard my steps.

"Good morning, Callum. There's no need to hide."

How do moms do that? I thought.

"Good morning. I wasn't hiding, by the way," I replied, stomping down the steps to show her I meant it.

Mom moved a plate with sandwiches closer to me. I sat down and the chair creaked slightly under me.

"Where's Bev?" I asked, surprised not to see her around.

"Already at school. Tea or juice?" Mom asked with a wan smile.

"Juice, please." I looked her in the eyes. Eyes filled with worry. "Any news about Nathan?" If there was, she'd already have told me. But I needed to make sure.

"No." Mom got up to take a pitcher and poured me some orange juice. "I called Alice and Ben. The police still have no clues where he might be." She put the glass in front of me and sat down, cupping her face and sighing deeply.

"Before I leave for work, I want to ask you something." She took a seat opposite.

A piece of the sandwich lodged in my throat, and I felt myself choking. I grabbed the glass to take a sip, my eyes stinging.

After a few moments of hesitation she ventured, "Nathan and you were inseparable ever since we came here. If you know where he might be, you'd better tell Geoff— I mean, Chief Coleman."

I kept silent. Mom looked at me—I could feel her eyes boring into me—and the last thing I wanted was to look back. It was surprisingly difficult to find something else in the room to focus on.

"I told him all I knew, Mom." I didn't know why I concealed the Swamps story. I think I still wanted to believe Nathan was alive, and each day without news was killing my hope.

"Okay." She sighed.

Drumming my fingers on the polished surface of the table, I cringed and said, "I don't want to go to school, Mom."

First I thought she didn't hear me, but then she reacted. "I've already called Mrs. Collins and told her you're unwell."

"Thanks," I mumbled and went upstairs.

I locked the door, even though I knew no one would violate my privacy. It just felt safer this way.

The weather didn't improve a bit; the only thing that changed was the intensity of the rain. Now it was a nasty drizzle, and passers-by—a few of my schoolmates among them—used umbrellas as shields against the clinging moisture.

At least now I could go to the Swamps.

Two voices waged a fierce war inside my head. One warned me not to go out there, and I would be glad to stay inside, if not for the other voice that tempted me, 'He is there. You'll find him, Callum.' It beckoned me stronger, in a more pronounced way, and I decided to listen to it.

I was ready to leave right away. There was only one problem: I couldn't get out till Mom left for work.

I took my iPod and sat down on the wide wooden windowsill, looking out of the window. About ten minutes later Mom came out and headed for the garage. The sound of the car engine came muffled but still discernible. Then the car appeared, leaving traces in the mud as she backed down the driveway.

I plugged headphones into my ears and pressed the Play button, enjoying the dark energy of Eternal Tears of Sorrow. I leaned my head against the windowpane, its cool, misted surface having a soothing effect on me.

All of a sudden, the music stopped and I opened my eyes. I realized I didn't know I'd kept them closed. Why did the music stop? The iPod screen was blank, unresponsive to my attempts to turn it on.

"You can't be dead," I groaned. I clearly remembered checking the battery before playing, and it was full.

As I took off my headphones, two things happened at once. I noticed something odd about my hands. First, the skin turned chalk white, with strange circles, triangles and letters appearing all over them, like tattoos. I rolled up the sleeves to find more of the strange symbols sprawling over my skin. Second, I felt deadly cold, as if all around me had turned to ice.

What the hell? That can't be right.

I took a breath and suddenly it hurt under my ribs as if someone had thrust daggers there and started twisting them. Paralyzed with fear, I stopped breathing altogether.

What's going on? Tears rolled over my cheeks.

I cowered from the uneasy feeling creeping down my back.

No longer able to hold my breath, I exhaled just a bit, thousands of needles prickling my chest. My larynx burned as if I'd just drained a tube of sulfuric acid.

I moved forward to climb down from the sill when something crashed against the window, its frame rattling violently. I ducked and shielded my face with the tattoo-covered arm, but nothing else happened except the agony of making a sudden move. After a few seconds' silence I braced myself and turned to see what it was, my eyes falling on an irregular web pattern of the broken glass.

Was it a bird? I'd heard stories of birds hitting windowpanes being a bad omen. I waited, still scared to death to fully exhale, to feel that excruciating pain under my ribs. I moved just a little bit again, and the next thing I knew, a violent force crashed into the window, throwing me on the desk below and then down on the floor. Pieces of glass ripped my flesh like shrapnel. I pushed myself up, palms cut by the shards on the floor. When I looked up to see what had broken the window, I no longer cared about the pain or the blood trickling down my fingers.

The hand lay on the desk, its fingers covered with blood and twisted as if to grasp something. To my relief, the pain under the ribs stopped and I could breathe again. I stood watching the hand. I wasn't like those people in horror movies who were eager to go into a dark room where they heard some noise or hissing. No, I wasn't like that.

Turning on my heel I sprinted out of the room, but there was someone in the corridor, right in my way. The girl. She stood there, watching me. This time I could see her face. If she weren't dead and her skin weren't cadaverous, I'd call her pretty. If ruined all of it.

I knew it was the girl who had visited me about a week earlier.

"Be my friend, Callum," she whispered, her voice causing goosebumps over my skin. "Let's go with me."

She took a step in my direction, and I stepped back.

"You set me free. Come with me." She watched me without blinking, getting closer.

"No!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Then I woke up, my shirt drenched in cold sweat. The music was still playing in my earphones. I took them out of my ears.

Muffled sunlight filtered through the window. The glass wasn't damaged, no cracks, no hands, no blood. My skin didn't have that cadaverous tinge anymore. I rolled my sleeves to make sure it was just a dream. No marks or symbols marred me. I let out a deep sigh of relief.

Yet my heart thumped in my chest. Sitting on the exact spot where the hand had lain in the dream freaked me out.

I climbed down the windowsill, my legs shaky.

What are those symbols on my hands? I thought. And the girl. How come she knows my name?

"I'm afraid I'm missing something. Who are you? And where do you want me to go with you?" Then I asked my empty room a question that sent shivers down my spine. "And what is it that I set you free from?"

I knew what I had to do. It was time to get out of here and go to the Swamps to find Nathan.

\-------------------

*About the Author*

Ivan Amberlake is an urban fantasy writer whose debut novel "The Beholder" was selected for review by HarperCollins on December 1, 2011. He is currently working on Book 2 of The Beholder series called "Path of the Heretic" and a continuance of Diary of the Gone. Ivan has a Masters Degree in Linguistics and works as a teacher. His greatest passion is writing.

Life Ever After. Nina's Story: Part 1.

by CLAIRE C RILEY

Part 1.

1.

"Where did they come from?" Ben looks at me with a look somewhere between annoyance and disdain.

"The shoe shop, obviously," I say with another one of my trademark eye rolls. Sure, I know what he's really asking, but who the hell is he to tell me how I can spend my money?

"Nina, don't be a bitch about it. You know what I'm saying."

See. Even he knows that I know that he knew... whatever, you get the point.

"We're supposed to be saving." He puts down the shoe and looks at me seriously. I can tell that he's trying his hardest to contain his anger, but the fire in his eyes only makes me want to prod him with a sharp stick all the more.

"Saving? I didn't see you saving when Call of Duty was released, Ben." I push my brunette hair behind my ears.

"That's different."

"Why? Because your things are more important than mine?"

"No, because well- it's Call of Duty, and these are just shoes! You have hundreds of damn shoes," he splutters.

I stare at him through narrowed eyes. "You just have no idea, do you?"

Things have been rough between us for months, and though I know that I want to be with him still, I can't help but wonder if he still wants to be with me. We scream and shout continuously. Bickering about the mundane things, and ignoring the important stuff. Our marriage is just one long carousel of arguments and has been for far too long. The differences between us have become more apparent as the years have progressed, and the things that I found so endearing about him- now irritate the shit out of me. I know I'm not alone in this analogy though, since he tells me the same on a daily basis.

Ben runs his hands through his blond hair and stands. He looks at me once, picks up his car keys, and leaves the kitchen. My smile falters and I take a deep breath as I leave the kitchen. I hate arguing, but this is what our relationship's been reduced to- a pissing contest. I follow him into the living room, still holding on to one of my precious blue shoes.

"Where are you going? What did I do now?" I ask his retreating back.

He turns and looks at me with those beautiful sad blue eyes of his. "You're right--"

"You admit it finally!" I huff.

"I have no idea," he continues, "I have no idea about who you are or what the hell we're doing. I just know that I can't do this anymore." His voice is soft and full of hurt, and shame spreads across my cheeks and neck in a hot flush. "I thought that we had moved past... this." He opens his arms wide. "Another thing I got wrong, I guess."

I swallow down the lump in my throat. I hate it when he plays the injured party card. Like I'm the bitch and he's the saint. It's not fair, and it's not true. He's as big an arsehole as I am; he just hides it better.

"Like so many other things you got wrong, hey, Ben. Like when you forgot our anniversary, or when you didn't bother to pay the water bill, defrost the freezer, or fix the damn back gate. Seriously, what is your problem anyway? Those shoes are gorgeous; they were on sale, and they are totally practical."

"Practical?" He raises an eyebrow at me.

"Yes."

"Well I'd like to see you do the shopping in them, then," he laughs.

I snort. "Challenge accepted."

He stares at me hard, his jaw moving its muscles slowly as he tries to contain his anger again. He takes a deep breath. "I'm going to work, Nina. I can't deal with this shit right now. Do the shopping in them and we'll see how practical they are. Maybe I'm wrong. You have to wear the damn things, not me. I'm just a man, I hate shoes." He opens the door and leaves, slamming it shut behind him.

I hate it when he slams doors.

I can finally breathe. Pulling the air in and out of my lungs so fast I think I might hyperventilate. I hate this. This isn't me. This isn't him. This isn't us, and I can't understand how we got to this place, or how to get us out of it.

2.

The store is ridiculously busy for a Wednesday afternoon. I should be working from home on a new work proposal, not out doing the shopping. Certainly not in high-heels. Definitely not heels this expensive, but there it is.

Bananas, apples, grapes.

I sigh for the hundredth time since leaving the house, and throw a packet of something-or-other in the trolley. I hate food shopping. This is Ben's domain; he loves cooking. The fluorescent tubing above me is too bright, giving an overly cheery appearance to the vegetable display.

Broccoli, carrots, potatoes.

A little old lady stops and stands in front of me with her little pull along trolley, chattering away with another grey-haired old person. I will never understand why they walk around with those ugly looking things. I clear my throat to get their attention, but receive no response back. They're standing right in the middle of the aisle, blocking the way for me and anyone else that needs to get past, chatting away like there's not a care in the world. I huff as I push past them, nudging their trolley out of the way with mine.

When did I get like this? All bitter, and twisted. This is not who I am; this is the woman I've slowly been turning into.

Beans, corn, tomatoes.

It's time we stepped away from each other to decide what's best for the marriage and for ourselves. I have to do this for myself before I end up hating him, or worse, he ends up hating me.

Pasta, rice... shit, I can't do this.

I slump to the floor next to my trolley, my back against the 'World foods' section, and ignore the stares from the people that walk past me. I let my head sink into my hands and try not to sob. Slipping my shoes off, I throw them into the trolley with the food.

God I love him so much, but I can't do this anymore.

The horrible fluorescent tube blinks and flashes repeatedly above me, before finally giving up all together. I stand back up and make a note to get painkillers; the flashing light has brought on a headache. Wiping my tears away, I carry on with the shopping in bare feet.

Twenty minutes later and with my feet killing me, I push the trolley through the exit of the supermarket, glad that it's finally over and done with. If only everything in my life was as simple as that.

A short, sharp, scream behind me makes me jump and I turn to look and see what's happening. People are running to help a woman who's on the floor. I'm pretty sure there's blood around her, but I can't be sure as a group of people have crowded around her. There's a huge commotion with people pulling and tugging at her, they must be doctors I guess. I hate the sight of blood, and with a shrug I turn back around and carry on to my car. It's a silly little silver sports car, and I'm not even sure how the hell everything is going to fit in it, but with a squash and a squeeze, and some precarious balancing, it finally does. Even though I probably squish some of the groceries when I close the boot lid.

I slip my shoes back on as I climb into my car, grab a bottle of water from one of the bags and take a large gulp. I look up as an ambulance turns up, and as I drive away, I see a small group of people running from the store.

What are they running from?

I stop at the lights and watch through my rear view mirror in morbid fascination. Someone's covered in blood and another person is crying. People seem to be in a frenzy, bumping into each other and falling over.

Shit, what the hell's happened?

The lights change, but I'm transfixed with the scene behind me. There's a struggle between two or three people. They push and shove each other, hands grabbing at one another's clothes. More people are running past them, but no one seems to be attempting to stop the fight. More screams have broken out and I turn in my seat to look out of the back window, my brown eyelinered eyes narrowing into slits as I watch.

A honk from the car behind me has me moving my arse, and I wave my apologies to the driver and drive.

The streets are deserted on the way home, with virtually no pedestrians about. The world seems to have stilled on its axis. I can't explain it, but there's something not quite right. Perhaps it's because it's the middle of the day and everyone is working?

Which is exactly what I should be doing, not fucking shopping, I think again angrily.

Who am I even angry with anymore? Ben or me?

My feet are throbbing with pain when I get home, and as soon as I get inside I put the shoes back in their pretty black box, where I know they will more than likely stay. I sit on the edge of the sofa, rubbing the sole of my foot, knowing that I now have to drag all the shopping into the house. Yet another great job that I'm not used to doing. Ben normally brings the shopping in and I put it all away. I guess this is just another part of the life that I'm going to have to get used to if we do separate.

I deftly tie my hair up into a high bun and with a huff go back out to the car still barefoot, and hastily grab a couple of the heavy bags. The neighbours next door are home; I can hear them arguing loudly. Ann screams at her husband, something smashes, and I pause for a moment wondering if I should go and see if she's okay, but decide it's none of my business.

Jesus, I bet that's what me and Ben sound like all the time. How embarrassing.

I drop the bags in the kitchen and go back outside for some more. The sun is still high in the sky and I raise a hand to my eyes whilst I watch the neighbours across the road pile into their car and screech away. My eyes narrow as I watch them drive off.

What the heck has gotten into everyone? I purse my lips and grab more of the groceries.

Bags cover the kitchen floor, and it's depressing knowing that I've still got it all to put away. I go back outside for the last lot of bags, pick them up, and awkwardly slam the boot lid shut with my elbow. The heat is pouring down on me and making me sweat like a pig, which just makes my day even more perfect. I'm nearly inside the house when a can of tomatoes slips out of a hole in the side of one of the bag and rolls down the driveway.

Shit!

Stumbling inside, I drop the bags down with a large thud, and go back outside for the MIA tomatoes. I walk down the driveway and retrieve the can, only looking up when I hear more tires squealing my way. Ben's pickup pulls up to the kerb in a screech of burnt rubber and smoke. Diving out of it, he slips and almost falls to the ground before correcting himself, and I'd laugh, but the look on his face is anything but funny.

3.

"Get inside, Nina." He pushes me inside and closes the door, clicking the lock into place.

"What's wrong? What's happened?"

He charges up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and I follow him up cautiously. I've never seen him like this. Ben is, well... he's Ben. Fearless, funny, happy-go-lucky, and lazy of course. He's not normally a drama queen, that's my domain.

"Ben, what's going on?" I stand in the doorway of our bedroom, my arms wrapped around myself, still clutching the can of tomatoes. He grabs his backpack from the bottom of the wardrobe and begins to fill it with clothes. I don't know whether he didn't hear me or he chose not to answer me, but he suddenly stops what he's doing and dives under the bed, pulling out his dad's old gun box. I flinch as I watch him unlock the box, pull out the old Smith and Wesson .38, and load the bullets into it in quick succession. He slips the gun into the waistband of his jeans like it's an everyday thing to do.

"Ben?" I can't get the rest of my words out. The tears in my eyes are stinging and make me blink rapidly. I don't even know what the hell I'm crying for, but I am. His look, his fear; his whole presence is scaring me now.

"We need to pack, Nina." He looks at me pleadingly, ignoring my questions again, and then he glances to the open window.

I haven't heard it until now, but there are sirens going off in the distance. The noise seems to motivate him even more, and he picks up his half-full rucksack, slings it over his shoulder, and walks towards me.

"There are... things that I haven't the time to explain right now, but you have to trust me, Nina. Forget all your usual bullshit and trust me." His big rough hands cover my shoulders and he looks at me seriously.

I give a little laugh and shrug him off. "MY bullshit?" I roll my eyes at him, but he doesn't rise to the bait. "You're scaring me, Ben. Stop it. Tell me what's going on," my voice trembles and the tears that have been forming in my eyes spring free.

Damn it, I want to be strong. It seems like I need to be strong right now.

A crash from outside makes us both jump, and Ben leaves my side to run to the window. He opens it wider and looks out, his body tensing as he does.

It's as if opening the window has opened the door to a whole new world, one my ears aren't quite ready to believe or understand yet. Screaming and shouting have erupted outside, with bangs and explosions following closely behind. I run to Ben's side, but he holds me back.

"Don't look."

My thoughts stray to the supermarket and the scene I had witnessed outside, and I push his hands away and move to the other side of the window.

The image before me doesn't seem real. This is hell; surely this is hell?

People are roaming the streets covered in blood. Some are huddled around something on the ground, viciously pulling and tugging and it's not until there's a gap in the crowd that I see it's our neighbour Sandy who lives opposite. My hand moves to my mouth to hold in my scream as flames burst from a house further down the street. Cars plough into one another, flipping up into the air and crashing back down. My neighbours, my friends are all trying to escape the hell they see too, but for most, it's too late. There is no escaping this.

I look at Ben, my eyes wide and brimming with fresh tears.

"Ben, what's happening?" I choke out the words.

He comes over to me and abruptly pulls me into his arms and away from the window. He kisses the top of my head and squeezes me. "I don't know, Nina. I honestly don't. I was at work and...and these guys came running in. They were shouting and swearing about being attacked. One of them had a huge chunk missing out of his arm; I mean a big chunk... just missing. I could see right down to the fucking bone!"

Ben lets go of the bag he's holding, letting it fall to the floor. "He was panting and wheezing and I tried to call for an ambulance, but the call wouldn't connect. Then I heard this moaning and these other people came in to the garage. Nina, they didn't look right." He pulls back and looks at me, with something in his eyes that I haven't seen before. Fear. "This sounds fucked up, I know, believe me I know, but you have to believe me when I say it...I think they were zombies."

I snort and pull out of his arms. My eyes instinctively go back to the window. There's no denying it. Though my very soul is begging me to try.

"Zombies? Don't be ridiculous, Ben!" I watch in horror as Sandy's leg twitches. The people, zombies, whatever-the-hell they are, stand up and walk away from her, seemingly bored with their prey now. Sandy sits up, her insides tumbling out into her lap, and I yelp and gag on the vomit that forms in my throat.

Ben grabs me and pulls me away from the window, hugging me into him harder. "I know, baby, I know."

"How is this happening, Ben?" I feel sick, my stomach is twisting, and with every new bang and scream from outside it twists a little more, ready to spill my stomach contents to the floor—rather like Sandy's, I can't help but think morbidly.

I feel him shrug and he kisses my head again. I pull back to say something, but the words don't come. Instead, another crash and scream sound from outside and Ben reaches down and picks up his bag again.

"Can they get in here?" My voice shakes.

"I don't think so." He glances out the window and I do the same, watching a couple of zombies pass our house. They seem oblivious to us in here. His pickup and my car are surrounded though. "I think if we close all the curtains we should be okay for a couple of hours, but we can't stay here. As soon as things calm down, we have to go, so I need you to pack some stuff. Can you do that?"

I nod, my mind racing as to what I'll need. This doesn't make sense—zombies, the end of the world.

Oh my God. I close my eyes and take a steadying breath before opening them and making myself move.

"Where are we going?" I grab some socks and underwear from my drawers and then go to the bathroom for my toothbrush.

Jesus, I'm packing a fucking toothbrush in the midst of a zombie apocalypse! I shake my head at my own thoughts. What if this is everywhere? What if this isn't just here? No, it can't be everywhere; there would have been warnings, the government would have...

I clutch the sink with both hands and retch into it repeatedly. My stomach's contents doggedly refusing to remove themselves. Tears are in my eyes from the force of each heave, or maybe it's the realisation that this is it. Apocalypse now, and all that other crazy shit. I finally look up at myself in the mirror. I'm pale and shaky, my mascara smudged. I glance behind my reflection to see Ben watching me with sad eyes from the doorway.

"We can go to my parents' cabin up in Woodland Springs. It's isolated and hard to reach, especially if you don't know it's there. There's always plenty of food since they spend their entire summers up there. We can wait this thing out, Nina. That's where my parents will be; we'll all be safe together." He looks almost hopeful.

"Ben, that place is miles away! How will we get there without...well, you know, those things?" I turn and face him, unable to finish off what I'm trying to say.

"I don't know where else to go." He shrugs helplessly. "I need you with me. I need you to be safe."

I stare it him for a second, my heart feeling a rush of love for the fact that he wants me with him. "Okay then," I reply.

It seems like a good plan. It's the only plan, and I don't have any better ideas. I nod and continue throwing things into my bag, quickly deciding what I think I will need and what I won't.

Surely the police or someone will turn up soon and sort this all out. What if they don't? What if this is everywhere? Who knows what's going to be important, or how long things will be like this?

I throw things haphazardly into my bag. Thick socks, extra knickers, a fucking shotgun would be nice too now that I think about it! Jesus, this is madness. My hands are shaking and I beg myself to calm down.

"I'm going to pack some food." Ben walks across the room and I stand up abruptly.

"Wait!" My heartbeat is going a million miles an hour. "Don't go. Don't leave me."

I can't help but think that my choice of words are surprisingly fitting considering my earlier thoughts.

The moment hangs in the air between us for an unbelievable amount of time before he walks towards me and grabs me in another fierce bear hug. He pulls my face up to his and kisses me with so much force I think he's bruised my lips, but I don't care. I kiss him back, my mouth feeling like it's found its missing best friend. Tears stream down my face, and when he finally pulls away from my lips and looks into my face, his expression is a mixture of happy and sad.

"Never."

I smile at him, tears of fear and love mixing into one big wet mess down my cheeks.

He smiles back. "It takes the end of the world for us to stop fucking arguing, eh?" he says sadly.

I bite my lip and nod, giving a small laugh as more tears trickle down my face. He thumbs them away and kisses me softly.

"I got a present for you today." He smiles.

This doesn't seem fucking real. In the midst of an apocalypse and we're talking about forgiveness and presents. This has to be a dream, but I'd like to see how the dream ends so I go with it.

Cocking my head to one side, I give him a wonky smile. "Yeah?" I breathe out, my voice trembling when I try to ignore another crash from outside.

"Yeah." He takes my hand, I pick up my bag with my free one, and we go down the stairs.

The world has suddenly gone silent. There is no more screaming, no more shouting. No bangs and explosions. Just silence. It's eerie, but for the moment all I can think is that I need him to know how much I love him in-case we die. That seems a very likely scenario right now, death.

"I'm sorry." The words finally pass my lips and he stops halfway down the stairs and turns to look at me.

"I know, Nina. So am I." He smiles and carries on walking, pulling me with him.

We reach the bottom of the stairs and he retrieves the box that he'd thrown down earlier, and hands it to me.

I open it up and laugh. Well, I laugh and cry. Maybe a little bit of snot is mixed in with it all too, who knows.

Inside is a pair of navy blue Doc Martin boots.

"Now that is practical footwear." He smiles.

4.

I tie the laces tight, knotting them into a little bow on each boot.

He's right, these are practical. I smile. And they're comfy. It's strangely perfect timing as well. If there was ever a time for me to get these boots, I guess this would be it. Not that I would ever wish for a zombie apocalypse of course, but if there was ever going to be one, I would want these boots, not the stupid high heels that I bought. Even if they are exceptionally pretty.

I pull the curtains to one side and peep out. Zombies are roaming the streets. Bumping into each other and then moving on. They still look vaguely human, not how I'd expect them to look at all. Maybe it's because they're only newly dead, who knows? That's what fascinates me the most. Apart from the blood, gore, missing limbs and what not, they still look the same to me. Well, most of them do. There's Emma Watson from across the street.

Hey Emma, how's it going today? How's work? Have you had your hair done, it looks lovely. Oh, by the way, where's your arm? Oh hey, Dennis from number thirty-two. I heard your wife wasn't feeling well, but man she really looks like death if you know what I mean?

My stomach turns, doing a little somersault. Sandy is there again. She's moaning, standing in front of her house as if some sort of memory remains of her life before her death, before her life... again, or whatever. Maybe it does. What the fuck do I know? It still doesn't seem real, but the hell that has enveloped my street begs me to argue with it.

The dead have risen. The dead walk. The un-dead are out there, eating my friends and standing on my front lawn, trampling all over my flowerbeds. God damn it! This can't be happening. With all the curtains drawn shut, and all the doors locked, we are relatively safe in the darkened front room. Or so Ben thinks. Neither of us know what to do for the best. It's not like this sort of thing happens every day and we have a guide to follow or whatever.

What worries me the most is that no one has turned up to help. I expected the army, or at the very least the police, but nothing and no one has come to rescue us. I try the TV again. I've lost count of how many times I've tried the damn thing, but still it comes up with a black screen and nothing more. I flip through the channels. Click, click, click... there! A message. Finally a message.

Stay inside and lock your doors. Do not attempt to go outside for any reason. Do not attempt to make contact or reason with the infected in any way. The infected are highly aggressive. The government will be in contact soon.

That's it. Nothing more.

This is real, then. I lean against the wall, my legs too weak to support me. This is actually fucking happening.

I look at Ben, who's oblivious to what I've just read.

"Ben."

He turns, and seeing my expression, which I can only imagine looks terrified, he replies. "What?"

His eyes stray to the screen and he quickly comes over to read it, rubbing a hand down his face as he does. "Shit."

I nod in agreement. Not that he's looking at me, but the agreement is there all the same.

"What now?" my voice is quiet, and I'm not sure if I'm asking him or myself.

"What now?" He turns to look at me.

"Yeah?"

"We get the fuck out of here."

"But, the TV says..."

"I don't care what that thing says. We can't stay here. They'll find us eventually." He seems so determined, strong, and dominant. Not the laid-back man I've been angry with for so long.

"But..."

"Jesus, Nina, but nothing. No one's coming for us."

My lower lip trembles, tears forming in my eyes again. I'm such a fucking cliché. "You don't know that, Ben."

"You're right, I don't."

"Then why can't we just wait and see? Just for a day or so, maybe... maybe someone will come." I don't want to wait around here for any length of time, but then again I also don't want to go outside, either. However, if there's a chance of help coming and saving us shouldn't we take that chance?

Ben looks to be pondering my words. His hand rubs the back of his neck before he looks up at me and answers. "Okay. So we'll wait." His jaw is still grinding away with worry, but with the gun hooked into his jeans and his new can-do attitude, I feel safe.

A bang from the back garden interrupts us and we both run to the back window and peep out through the curtains. More zombies have found their way into the small space that used to be our patio. It sure isn't anymore. No, now it's more of a zombie neighbourhood gathering. Now all we need is a BBQ and some beer to really get the party started.

"Shit," Ben say's again, his voice barely audible next to me.

I agree though. Shit, would be it indeed.

Double shit. Holy shit. Yes, all of the above and more.

5.

"I thought the back gate was locked." Ben's gaze is fixed on the outside as he speaks, but I don't even need to look at him to know that he's cringing at his own words as we both think of the broken lock on the back gate. The lock that I've asked him to fix for the past year.

Typical man. You nag and nag and nag at them to get things done, and they keep putting it off with the same dismissive remark; 'what's the worst that can happen? I'll fix it next weekend.' Well, this is the worst that can happen! Just like that, the past years' worth of anger is back again. This is just one of the many reasons that I had been feeling like I was giving more to our marriage than he was and I was constantly moaning at him-- his laziness to do anything proactive in our marriage, around our home, or anywhere come to think of it.

It's funny isn't it. Even in the midst of something like this, I can still be angry with him for something which is, especially now, inconsequential.

DIY. One of life's, and most marriage's, greatest failures.

"Sorry." He puts his arm around my shoulders and I relax against him without even thinking about it.

"I know you are." The anger is still there, but when your neighbours are filling your yard with their sorry dead arses, I guess there's more to be angry over in the world than just my husband's laziness. Even if it could end up getting us killed.

Bloody men!

As the day draws on, we try to devise a strategy for our survival. One of us needs to be on watch at all times. Ben isn't happy for me to be on guard duty, but he can't stay awake forever and I'm not going to stand for his male chauvinistic bullshit, anyway. We have our bags packed so that when we see our opportunity we can make a run for it to his pickup; now we just need to secure our valuables and sort out something to eat, and we'll be fine.

Yeah right.

Every time that I look outside I feel sick. The dead smell. That's not me being a bitch, that's the truth; and it's not something that I would have ever considered up until now, but they really do stink. It makes me feel sick. The sight of them, the smell of them. It's sensory overload.

Ben says the electricity will turn off soon. That's what he thinks anyway. He's probably right. I think about the supermarket trip and realise exactly how lucky I actually am.

The scream as I was leaving.

The blood and the crowd around the person on the floor.

I shiver at the thoughts and images that force their way into my head as I push my food around on my plate with my fork. The pasta's barely soft since we were so nervous about being in the kitchen and making too much noise. The chicken was cooked on the George Foreman grill on the bedroom floor-- we were that scared. So here we are, eating chicken and pasta sat down on the bedroom floor like happy little campers, whilst the world turns to shit outside of our bedroom window. This is just plain weird.

"It was happening at the supermarket." I look up at him over my food.

"What was?" His appetite hasn't been affected at all, typical man, and he continues to shovel food into his mouth. He looks at me finally. "You need to eat, Nina. We need to keep our energy up."

I put a piece of pasta in my mouth and chew it slowly. "As I was leaving the store today, something was happening. I didn't realise it, but it must have been this..." I gesture around us.

Ben stops eating and looks at me, his eyes wide and his fork hanging in the air between his mouth and his plate.

I nod. "I know, right." I swallow the pasta piece and nearly gag on it. I really can't eat right now.

"Did you see anything?"

"Just a bunch of people running around, and then an ambulance turned up, but you know, it didn't even occur to me that it would be... well, this!" I snort and put my plate down. "Like this would ever cross my mind."

"You need to eat," he prompts again, pointing to my plate with his fork. "There's hardly any of you to begin with, you can't afford not to eat."

"I can't, Ben." I push my plate away like a brat.

"Nina..."

"No, I can't." I stand up and go to the window. The sun is setting. God knows what the night will bring.

I hear him put his plate down and a few seconds later his arms are around my waist, his chin on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I just worry about you. If you don't want to eat, don't," he whispers the words into my ear.

I turn around to look at him, his hands never leaving my waist. "I love you, Ben." Sincerity pours from me. "I've always loved you, and I know that we have both messed things up pretty badly, I really do know that, and yeah maybe it's taken this to sort our marriage, and maybe it won't work. Maybe we are still doomed and none of this even matters because we'll die tomorrow--"

"Don't say that," he interrupts.

"It's true though, Ben." I pull away from him and pull back a corner of the curtain to reveal the horror outside. "Look at this! I'm not stupid. There's a huge chance that one, if not both of us are going to die. I don't want it to be true, but that's the fact of the matter." I take a heavy breath as I listen to my shaky voice. I slump to the floor and sob as the realisation takes hold of me. How much time have we wasted arguing and fighting when the end of the world was on our doorstep. Hindsight is a bitch. "I don't want to die and I don't want you to either, but--"

"We're not going to die. We're going to get through this...together." His arms are around me again, and if I didn't know any better I would say that he was crying, too.

6.

We spend our days keeping a watch over the street out front, watching the back garden slowly fill with the dead, and talking about the past. I've noticed that we avoid talking about the future. We talk about when we first met, our first kiss, and our wedding day. We reminisce on the past eight years together, both skirting around the subject of the past year, and where it all started to go wrong.

Ben shows me how to shoot, though for what good it will be I don't know, since we can't actually fire the gun. Regardless, he shows me how to load, aim and fire it and it makes me feel a little more competent, if nothing else. He tells me the story of how he ended up with the old Smith and Wesson .38 a hand-me-down from his grandfather to Ben's father and then to Ben. I can tell we're both wondering if he'll have the chance to pass it down to his own son in the future. Worst of all is the thought that we might actually have to kill the things outside. They may be dead now, but we knew these people, they were our friends and neighbours once upon a time.

Every night is scarier than the last. The noises are louder. The blackness more foreboding. You'd think you would get used to it, but you don't. Ben sleeps on top of the bed fully dressed, a blanket draped across him. Not a sound can be heard... apart from the grunts and groans of the dead outside. Of course they don't shut the fuck up.

I get up from the bed for what seems like the hundredth time this night to check on them. I don't want to, but I have to. If I don't watch them, I feel like I'm going insane; because the need to know what they are doing out there is constant, like an itch I can't scratch. I go from room to room upstairs, checking all the windows. There's more of them now than yesterday, and even more from the day previous to that.

Where are they coming from?

Ben hates having to go to sleep, but I always insist. He's no use to me dog-tired. If I'm honest I'm always surprised that he can actually fall asleep, but it seems that's just another thing that doesn't seem to bother him, though it's a light sleep. For me I can never sleep until the strength to physically keep my eyes open is impossible.

I hate this time of night, when it seems that it will never end, when morning seems so far away. I want to wake him; I don't want to be awake on my own, but I need to not be such a girl about this, grit my teeth and learn to deal with the situation. My mind keeps playing tricks on me with every little noise I hear. I creep downstairs and check the TV again. Apart from that one message, there has been no word since. The growls from the back garden intensify when they see the glow from the telly so I quickly flip it back to off. I sneak back up the stairs and peek out the window overlooking the back garden to watch them again. They don't seem to know how to get back out of the garden, and they seem pretty pissed with the fact of being stuck. Every time that another one stumbles in, there's less and less room and they get growlier.

Growlier? Is that even a word?

My eyes are red and sore from staring out the window, and when Ben's hands guide me to the bed I don't have the energy to resist. He lays me down in it and covers me with the blanket. It's still my shift, but I can't keep my eyelids from closing, sending the world flickering into blackness.

"Baby, baby, wake up!"

Hands shake me awake, strong fingers digging into the soft flesh of my upper arms. I open my eyes groggily, and for a moment, just one sweet moment, everything is back to normal. There are no zombies, no death, and blood. There is no infidelity, no lies, and Ben and I are happy and content in our beautiful little marital bubble.

Reality hits me across the face. Or rather Ben's palm does, softly of course, just enough to get me to wake the fuck up.

"We need to go, now. Get up." He drags me up to sitting and I stare at him in confusion for a moment. "Get up, Nina."

Zombies. Death. End of the world. Oh yeah, shit!

I practically jump out of bed, half-stumbling over Ben, and push my long hair away from my face whilst reaching for my boots that I don't even remember taking off.

"What? What's happening?" I'm slipping on my Doc Martins before I've even finished talking.

"We need to go. There's too many of them." He grabs my hand and drags me through the house to the spare room. We look out of the window and out on to our patio below. "There's too many of them," he repeats, as if I didn't hear him the first time.

Words cannot express the true horror of the vision before me. The garden is crammed full with zombies, deaders, whatever you want to call them. My neighbours. My friends. The bitch from down the road who always used to complain about me putting the bins out the night before collection. They're all there, and they all look and sound really pissed off. Shuffling past each other and bumping shoulders, arms, legs, some are even crawling across the floor and causing others to trip over. The noise seems deafening, or maybe that is the blood rushing in my ears.

We knew this time was coming; there has been more and more of them coming for days now. I just hoped that help would arrive before it actually happened.

"I don't want to leave," I whisper without looking away from the window.

"We have to."

"But Ben--"

"We have to, Nina. We have to make a run for it now, before they smash through the patio window."

"I can't. I'm scared." My hands are shaking, and I ball them into fists by my sides. Neither of us are moving. We both stand and stare, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

A cry escapes my mouth as the first zombie bumps into the glass.

Ben grabs my arm, dragging me away from the window. "Move, Nina," his voice is harsh, but controlled, and I'm glad he's being the brave one because I don't think that I can.

"Nina, come on," he shouts louder to get my attention.

We're in the hallway now, with Ben still pulling me. I know that I need to pull my shit together, but I feel drunk with panic.

Ben grabs me and pulls me down the stairs. He slips one of the backpacks onto my shoulders. It's heavy and burdensome, and more panic sets in that I won't be able to run with it on.

"I'm going to run down the street, and try to direct them all away from the house." He pulls the curtains on the front window away a crack so that I can see out. "There's too many of them by the pickup still, but they're slow. I can outrun them."

Ben grabs my hand, peeling my nails away from my palm, and places his keys in it. "You get to the pickup and then you come and get me."

I look up into his eyes, tears spilling down my face.

"Do you understand?"

Do I understand? No, not really. We're going to die, aren't we?

His words are hollow. They echo around in my head like marbles in an empty tin can as he tries to shake some sense back into me.

Jesus, we're going to die.

I look at Ben; he's sweating and panicking, too. He needs me. Ben needs me right now.

I nod. "Okay."

He hands me his backpack and I notice that it's even heavier than mine, but I only have to get to his pickup.

Only. I roll my eyes.

"You have to take that with you; I can't carry it and run."

I nod and grimace again at its weight, but don't comment on it.

Ben pulls the gun from the waistband of his jeans, turns to the door, his hand resting on the knob of it. He takes a deep breath and glances at me.

"Are you ready?"

I shake my head no and then give a half-hearted empty chuckle. He smiles back, turns to me, and kisses me with so much force that I nearly fall over. A thud hits the glass of the patio door and interrupts our goodbye. The growling getting louder.

His hand strokes my cheek. "I love you, Nina." He presses his forehead to mine. "Be safe."

"You, too," I whisper.

"I'll see you soon."

I nod again. We're both delaying it, putting off the inevitable until we really have to. The sound of banging is getting worse and I know that any minute the glass will give way and the house—our home—will be overrun with those evil things.

He looks at me one last time, turns the handle, and runs out of the door.

The smell is what hits me first. It smells like rotten meat that's been left out in the sun for too long. The smell makes me gag and I feel blinded by the need to vomit.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Move!

I look out of the door and see Ben running down the street; the zombies have begun to follow, slowly shambling after him. I wait a few seconds until a path clears to the pickup. The glass doors to the patio decide that now is the best time to give out and with a great creak they implode, and zombies tumble into the living room. There isn't that moment that you get in films, where everything pauses whilst people reassemble themselves and get their bearings, there is only the hungry growl of the dead as they lurch towards me, tripping over themselves and each other in their eagerness for breakfast à la cart.

I scream and run out of the door, coming straight smack bang into a stray deader. Her hands claw for me, scratching at my clothes as her head leans forward her mouth opening to take a bite out of my face. I push her back with all my force and swallow down a scream which is threatening to erupt form me at any moment. I slap her hands away from me and using Bens backpack as a shield I jump around her and she staggers to one side and falls over.

The pickup seems an infinite distance away from me. The more I run towards it, the farther away it is. Yet somehow I finally reach it, climb in, and slam the door shut behind me. Zombies stumble out of my front door, and my terror increases as one after another they see me. My hand fumbles with the key for a second or two, attempting to push the stupid thing into the little ignition hole. I scream in frustration and nearly drop it, and then I scream again when a zombie hits the side window.

The key slips in finally and I turn it, sticking the vehicle into gear and nearly forgetting to take the handbrake off as I slam it into reverse.

The pickup skids wildly away from the kerb as I attempt to turn it around and go after Ben, attracting more attention with all the noise that I'm making. My bag is still on my back and I can't sit properly with it on. I grab it, and tug it free from my shoulders and throw it into the foot space behind me with a frustrated yell.

I look up the road and see Ben still running. Every now and then glancing behind him looking for me. Zombies are exploding out from every corner of the street and I slam my foot down and haul-arse after him.

"I'm coming, baby."

7.

I slam into their rotting bodies, their skin leaving slimy brown blood trails across the hood of the car. Each time I hit a new one they give a throaty growl at me before sliding to the ground. Yet when I look in my rear-view mirror, they're standing back up as if I've just tickled them with a feather and not mown them over at fifty miles per hour.

As I get closer to Ben, I aim for them, skidding from side to side in an attempt to hit as many as possible. My speed drops to thirty miles an hour, then twenty, and then I'm dawdling along at ten miles an hour like I don't have a care in the world.

They are slow, and yes, they are stupid, but there's so freaking many of them that I can hardly spot Ben. If it weren't for his frantic looks behind, I wouldn't be able to see him above the crowd.

I've no idea how I'm going to get to him; he's tiring, slowing down, and a horrendous thought crosses my mind that I won't reach him in time. That it will be too late, and that they will get to him before me. I scream in terror as more of the damn things come out of the houses lining the road. Our street is ending, and beyond here is the main town. There's shops and businesses and more homes. We're screwed if I don't get to him before he reaches it.

I floor it and pull around some of the zombies haphazardly, looking around frantically trying to piece together a plan of some sort. I do the only thing I can think of and swing the steering wheel tightly to the right, pulling directly in front of Ben and knocking some more of the deaders over to boot.

Ben grabs the side of the pickup and dives in as dead greying hands grab for him. He kicks them away and I stick the pickup in gear and accelerate away, watching in my mirrors as they shamble after us like a mass of raving concert goers. I want to hoot and cheer myself. I've no idea how I just pulled off that move, I've never done anything like that before. I can only think that it is down to watching so many movies. Ha, and people say too much TV is bad for you.

We drive in silence with only the pickup's engine noise, and my racing heart to keep me company. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel as I drive us out of town. The place has been destroyed in only a couple of days. Bodies and blood litter the pavements and roads. Cars sit wedged together in collisions. And deaders roam the ravaged streets that I once called home. I blink once, twice, three times, but the image and my thoughts are still very clear. It's all gone; all destroyed, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

Whilst Ben and I were tucked up tight in our home, people were being eaten alive. My eyes stray to a zombie huddled over a body on the floor, scooping the insides up to its mouth. It watches me as we drive past it, standing up and letting the long intestines of whomever it was eating trail from its blood-ringed mouth. Its cold dead eyes follow me long after we have passed, and in my mirrors I watch it crouch back down and continue its meal.

My own stomach gurgles in retaliation wanting to purge itself. I can't look away from the windows and mirrors to look at Ben's face and calm myself though. They're everywhere. Blood flows through the streets like rivers of rain, and the dead are rife like vermin. The smell of death and decaying bodies is seeping in through the vents, making my nostrils flare in disgust. I reach for a dial on the dashboard; turning off the outside airflow and blocking the smell from me as much as I can.

Ben taps on the window to get my attention, his sleeve covering his mouth and nose. But I can't stop. Inside I'm a volcano of emotions waiting to erupt, waiting to savagely tear myself apart and release every feeling that I have pent up inside me. Like a wild cat, my mind screams and shakes to free itself from the terrors it's witnessing.

We leave our small town behind, the beauty of the countryside attempting to banish the visions that still haunt me, but they are still there. The images will always be there now, burned into my mind like history written into books.

I don't know how long I've been driving. Our hometown has vanished from my view, and the congestions of vehicles which surrounded it have dissipated to just the odd few. I haven't seen a zombie for a while, but behind my eyes they are everywhere. The world is crawling with their lifeless bodies.

"Pull over," I hear Ben shout to me.

I shake my head no.

"Pull over. I'll drive, it's okay now," his voice breaks through to me, gentle yet forceful at the same time, and I nod once and slowly pull the car to the side of the road.

Ben climbs down from the bed of the pickup and comes round to my door. My hands still grip the steering wheel tightly, and for the moment neither of us can say anything. I finally look at Ben and in his face is something that I have never seen in anyone's face before. Not really; not until now.

It's fear.

You know, you think you've seen fear before. You think you know it, but you don't. You can't truly know what it is to fear something or someone, to feel fear's hands clasping you by the spine, ready to drag your body apart. Not until you have witnessed hell like this.

Ben climbs in and I switch seats awkwardly without leaving the safety of the pickup. At some point I drift off to sleep. The constant hum of the engine and the lack of adrenalin pumping through my veins send me off into a heavy slumber. When I wake it's dark out and rain is hammering the windows. The wipers are squeaking as they swish the rain away from the glass.

I watch Ben's profile for a few minutes before he becomes aware of my stare. He turns to look at me. He looks older now. The lines in his face set harder, more determined than ever.

"You okay?" his voice breaks the silence between us.

Am I okay? I've no idea. Are any of us okay anymore? I shrug at him, my expression unchanging.

"I'll get us somewhere safe, Nina. I'll look after you. I promise."

When did he get so protective? I can't find my voice to answer him, so I close my eyes in response, trying to squeeze the tears back. The last thing he needs is me breaking down into a quivering girly wreck. I need to pull my shit together. I turn in my seat, arching my back as I stretch.

The night is so dark, and I've no idea where we are. Only the headlights of the truck light the way. The road looks like a thick black tongue. It reminds me of their tongues, lolling from their wretched mouths. Their fingers tapping at the windows, begging for entry. A shudder runs through me. It occurs to me that there are no lights anywhere. I look out of my side window and see the streetlights are there, but they remain unlit. As if all the bulbs in the world have popped.

"They went off an hour or so ago. They were on, and then...they were off," he answers my unasked question, his voice bringing a new chill to my bones.

"It's still happening then?"

"Yeah."

"I thought... I don't know, I guess I still thought that after a couple of days, the army, or the government, or someone would be able to stop them. That maybe it was just our town." My eyes have become more accustomed to the darkness now and I can see cars littering the side of the highway. Thankfully, and also ironically, it's actually too dark for me to make out if there are any deaders near the cars. "But no one's coming, are they? I mean, if the power has gone out, that means it's still spreading, right?"

"I guess so."

I take a glance at the speedo dial and see we're doing just thirty miles an hour.

Ben sees my gaze and replies. "They can't run, seems no point in using up all the fuel by driving like a maniac," he replies to my second unspoken question with a shrug.

I guess he's right, but I'd still feel safer driving faster. In the movies, some of them can run really fast. I snort out a laugh. I seriously need to remember that this is real life now, not the movies, no matter how much like a horror film this feels. I mean if this were the movies, there would be rescue helicopters round about now wouldn't they?

"What's so funny?" Ben asks.

"Nothing. Just me and my random thoughts. You know me."

He gives me a half smile and continues to drive.

8.

Daylight stretches out over the horizon in a beautiful mirage of colours. Oranges, yellows, and pinks. If I had my camera with me, I would probably take a picture of it as a keepsake. It's overly beautiful, especially in contrast to the ugly surroundings.

Death and destruction still litter the world around us. Town after town we have passed, always with the same conclusion, death.

The dead don't sleep, it seems. They only kill. We, however, do need to sleep. We are exhausted and hungry, our bladders are fit to bursting and we're seriously low on fuel. I don't know how far we have travelled, but even Ben's diesel pickup can only stretch the petrol so far. We are going to need to re-fuel or change vehicles very soon.

"I think there would be good." Ben points to a house in the distance. It is a lonesome looking country house. Small enough to be considered a cottage I guess, but large enough to house more than one or two zombies.

I shake my head. "No."

"We aren't going to make it much further, Nina."

"It's too dangerous."

"It has a truck on the drive."

"It has a swing in the garden," I state coldly.

"So?" He raises an eyebrow at me.

"So, that could mean zombie kids."

Ben looks at me in confusion.

"Are you ready to kill zombie kids? Because we damn might have to."

Ben shakes his head and we keep on driving, slowing as we pass it to check for signs of movement in or around the house. We see nothing, and at the last possible moment, Ben swings the wheel of the pickup, nearly doing a full 360. He straightens it back up and drives back towards the house with me huffing and tutting at him the whole time.

We pull up in front of the house, staring out of the windows, and watch for movement again. Apart from the swing that gently blows in the breeze, I can't see any movement. I squint my eyes up at the top windows and check the surrounding fields. I see Ben doing the same, but it's quiet, almost peaceful here. The sort of place that we would more than likely have retired to.

"We might not see another house for miles, and we don't have the fuel to get us that far. This is our best bet." Ben reaches into the back of the truck and grabs his backpack, pulls out a knife and hands it to me.

"You wait here. I'll go check it out, if it's safe I'll come back for you." He grabs his gun from the dashboard.

"No way. You're not going in there alone. If you insist on going, then I'm coming with you."

He shakes his head and I put a hand up. "Talk to the hand, Ben. I'm not debating this. Sure I can't fire a gun, and sure I can't fight for shit, but we're in this together, and you're not doing this alone. I love you and hell, let's be honest, I couldn't survive in this world without you anyway, so really if you want to protect me, then you have to let me come with you."

He smiles at me before I continue. "And yes, I do realise that I just gave you no good reason for letting me go in there with you, since I can't fight or shoot, and the sight of those dead things makes me queasy, but that's just your tough luck, because I'm still coming."

We both laugh, which seems totally obscure given the current situation, but there you have it. He leans over and kisses my lips tenderly.

"I love you too, but if there is any sign of trouble don't try and be a hero. You run back to the truck and lock the doors. I need to know that you'll do that."

I smile and nod, finally taking the knife from him. There's not a chance that he's going to let me go in there with him unarmed.

"Just aim and shoot," he says to himself. He looks at me and I nod for reassurance.

"I guess aim for the head, that's what everyone always says to do, right?" I add on.

"Who says?" Ben cocks his head to look at me.

"The films, the movie makers, you know?" I splutter, feeling kind of stupid saying it out loud.

Ben smirks and nods his head. I'm not sure he agrees with me or if he just thinks I'm an idiot, but feeling embarrassed I decide it's best to move on from the topic.

"Time to go," he says before he opens his door.

We get out and look around. It's strangely comforting having the sun warm on my skin, but what really keeps me calm is the smell. It smells clean. Fresh even. Lasts nights rain made the air even fresher. I can't smell any of the dead here and that thought alone gives me peace, at least for the moment.

We walk together hand in hand, eyeing the surroundings as we do. When we reach the truck, Ben tries the handle and it opens with ease.

"No keys, but it looks in good condition. If the keys are in the house, then we need to take them. Let's hope it has more fuel than the pickup." He closes the door quietly and comes back to my side.

A rustle behind us makes me turn and aim. Ben does the same, raising his knife upwards, but it's only a squirrel. It scurries up a tree and into safety. I look down both ways of the road before turning back to face the house.

The lower windows are boarded up, hell, even the letterbox as a piece of wood nailed across it. Ben tries the handle anyway, but of course it's locked.

We turn to look at each other.

"Should we, like, say something? Knock maybe?" I ask.

"I don't know. If anyone is still in there then we don't want to scare them."

"Yeah, but we don't want them shooting us, either. At least if we knock and say hello, they'll know that we're human," I reply.

Ben looks around us again, eyeing the horizon before replying. "I guess so. If they are zombies, at least we'll know when they come for us."

Ben reaches down, and forcing his knife under the piece of wood covering the letterbox, begins to pry it off carefully, so as not to snap the end of his knife off. Once he makes a gap big enough for his fingers to slip under, he grips the wood and rips it away. It's noisy and makes us both tetchy, the sound echoes around the deserted yard. I kneel down and look through the letterbox, moving the letterbox draft excluder out the way. There are no sounds coming from inside, and I can't see any blood on the other side of the door, though the hallway is a mess from some sort of disturbance. I don't want to poke my hand in too far since I don't know what is inside.

I clear my throat. "Hello?" I keep looking through the letterbox, knowing that Ben has my back. "Erm, if anyone is in there, can you say something? We need fuel, or your truck. We're not one of the dead." I feel kind of silly knelt down talking to a letterbox, and just as I'm about to stand up I hear movement from inside. "Ben!"

He nudges me out of the way and kneels down, with me standing guard over him. I watch the squirrel jump from one branch to the next, giving me a nervous glance and scurrying away again. They seem to have the right idea, hiding up in the trees, not trusting anyone. That seems the way to go, now if only we could do that.

"I can't see anything." Ben stands up. "Let's go try round the back."

We move to the back of the house, checking the windows we come across, but they all seem to be covered in a sheet or with curtains closed. The back yard is a mess. It has definitely seen some zombie action by the looks of the blood splatters on the grass, but thankfully, and also a little weirdly, there are no bodies.

Ben nudges me and points to a corner of the garden. The grass is black and burnt up from the remnants of a recent fire. I mouth an 'oh right' and we move to the back door. There's no letterbox here and so no way of checking inside.

"What now?" I ask Ben.

"We're going to have to break in. I need the keys to the truck." He jiggles the handle of the door and gives it a little shove to test the strength of it. He readies himself to shoulder slam it and...

"Wait!"

We both look up to see a man leaning out of the window.

"Don't break it in, I'll open up." He looks behind him and then back out to us. "Is it just you two?"

"Yeah," Ben replies, squinting up at the guy.

"Are you bitten?" he asks.

"No," I reply quickly. "Is that how it spreads?"

"I don't know, but it just seems right to check, you know?" He shrugs, unsure, and I nod in agreement.

"We don't want any trouble. We ran out of fuel, we just need..." I look away behind us at the burnt pile in the corner. "Help." I look back at him and he purses his lips into a thin line.

"I haven't got much, but you can have my truck." He looks behind him and then back out to us again, and I realise that he has someone else in there with him. "I'm not going anywhere."

"That would be great, thank you." Ben looks at me and then to the swing in the garden. "We don't have much either, but..." he looks back at me and then up to the man as he reaches a decision. "We have some food we can share. It's not much, but... well, you can have some of it."

I nod in agreement. We don't have much, practically nothing at all, but in this type of world you have to help one another or no one is going to survive.

"I'm coming down; I'll meet you at the front door." His head pops back into the house and the window shuts. We walk carefully back around to the front of the house, still watching for deaders, but it's beautifully quiet here, with no signs of movement other than the rustling of the wind in the trees and Mr Squirrel eating nuts out front.

The front door opens with a soft click and a man stands there, the barrel of a shotgun pointed directly at us. We both instinctively draw back from him, with Ben pulling out his Smith and Wesson in retaliation.

"Just the two of you?" he asks again quietly, his eyes never leaving Ben.

We both nod, our shoulders relaxing as he lowers his shotgun. Ben pushes his gun back into his waistband and we step forward to go inside, but the man shakes his head at us.

"You can't come in."

"Oh," Is the only word I can reply with, sounding almost sulky.

"Okay, well if you give us your keys we'll get you some food," Ben speaks from next to me, and I nod in agreement.

"Get me the food and I'll give you the keys."

"Dude, you were going to give us the keys anyway, don't be an arsehole about this," Ben snaps back.

"The names Stephen and that was before I knew that you had any food." Stephen raises his shotgun back up, pointing it at my face. "Now I want it all."

I raise an eyebrow at him. Wow, you think you know someone and then bam, they turn out to be a total dick.

"I suggest you go get whatever you have and bring it back to me before I shoot your girlfriend." Stephen's eyes flick to Ben.

"She's my wife, and if you hurt her..." he starts.

"I won't need to as long as you do as I say." His eyes glance at me, but avoid eye contact.

He doesn't seem like a killer. Not a human killer anyway. The pile of ash in the back garden only serves to prove that he'll kill zombies. A thought hits me.

What if they aren't zombie ashes? What if they were human ashes? Oh shit, have we stumbled upon a crazy in the middle of nowhere? That would be just my freaking luck.

Ben backs away from us and heads to the pickup.

I look at Stephen. His beard is growing through, and his hair is a mess. His face is tired and worn down with rings of anguish under his eyes, like only someone who has lost too much would have.

"Who did you lose?" I ask.

He closes his eyes for a second, but he doesn't reply and I know that I've struck a nerve in him.

"Was it your wife?"

His nostrils flare, but before I can say anything else, a little voice enquires behind him.

"Daddy?"

Stephen grimaces.

"Daddy? Can we eat now? I'm hungry."

Stephen's jaw grinds furiously before he responds. "In a minute, Jack. I'll be there in a minute, son."

My shoulders slump as Ben comes back. "You okay?" he asks.

"Yes," I reply quietly. "Give him the food."

Stephen's expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes recognises my kindness. He keeps his gun level with me, but I see his finger lift off the trigger.

Ben looks at me before nodding and dropping the bag at our feet.

"Back up," Stephen's voice is harsh and we step away from the door. "I'm sorry about this. I really am." He grabs the backpack of food as we continue to move away. He lowers his gun and reaches in his pocket, taking a minute to examine the item before throwing it to us and slamming the door shut.

We look at the keys to his truck in front of us and pick them up, knowing that we're taking away his only way of escape if something bad happens. Knowing that he isn't alone in there, I can't do it to him.

"Give me your keys, Ben."

I can't leave them with no escape, it doesn't matter that he just stole what little food we had. He has a little boy in there, and he has to protect him. I would do the same if it were me. You do what you do to protect who you love.

I jog up to the front steps and open the letterbox. Looking in I can see him still standing there, a set of little feet stood next to him.

"What do they want, daddy?"

I push the keys through quickly. "There's virtually no petrol left, but it might get you a little way down the road if you need to... I don't know, get away quickly."

Little feet run over to the door and small brown eyes look back at me through the letterbox. Chubby little cheeks giving way to a grin.

"Hi." A little boy smiles at me.

"Hi," I reply. "And bye." I wave and stand back up before I cry. "Good luck," I speak to the door, my voice cracking. I know that Stephen can hear me, though he doesn't reply.

Ben transfers what little things we have into the new truck and as we climb in, I glance back at the house. The letterbox is open and I can just make out a little face looking back at me. I smile as we drive away.

9.

Luckily for us, the truck is almost full and the day is taken up by driving. I can't help but wonder why Stephen never tried to go anywhere with his family; to get them to somewhere safe. Why has he just bolted his family inside his home? I realise the answer to my own question. There isn't anywhere safe anymore.

Ben decides to avoid towns now, and when a road comes up to take us to one, he always takes the opposite direction. I don't know if he is still driving towards his parents' cabin or if he is just driving to keep us moving.

We stop a couple of times when it seems the coast is clear and each take a bathroom break. End of the world or not, I still have to pee constantly. My bladder has always been tiny, but Ben doesn't grumble or complain every time I ask to go. I have noticed that it is getting yellower with each toilet trip, though. We have run out of water, and I'm not sure what we are going to do about that. Thankfully for us, Ben didn't give all of our food away. We still have some fruit in my backpack, though it's beginning to go soft.

As the sun begins to set, I find it hard to believe that this time last week I wanted my marriage over. That the man next to me, protecting me at all costs probably wanted rid of me too. Life is so short and so precious, every minute a valuable gift, and we have wasted so much of it.

I haven't even realised that I'm crying, and don't notice when Ben pulls up at the side of the road and unclips his seatbelt, placing his gun on the dashboard so that he can lean over to me. His arms wrap around me as I cry loudly.

"I'm so sorry, Ben. I'm so, so sorry."

"It's okay."

I push him off me. "No, it's not. I've hurt you so much, I just..." He rubs away my tears.

"I hurt you too, Nina. Maybe if I wouldn't have been such an arsehole all the time things would have been different. I did this to us, too, you know. You can't have all the blame for yourself." He strokes my face and continues. "I drove us to this, so whilst I appreciate that yes, you've been a bitch too, I can forgive you for it, because more than anything, baby, I just want my wife back. I miss you, I miss us. I don't care who did what, certainly not now." He gestures around us and I nod in understanding.

In the grand scheme of things, the past is over and done with, we have to look to the future now, and my future is with Ben.

He leans over hesitantly and kisses me as if it's the kiss from our very first date. I feel nervous, apprehensive, and a little bit excited.

"We've wasted so much time, Ben." I look at him through wet lashes and he smiles.

"Then let's not waste any more."

I nod and smile, feeling emotionally clean for the first time in months. I finally believe that we can move forward together, whatever the future holds for us.

"I love you."

"I love you so much, Nina." He kisses me gently and rubs the tears from my cheeks.

"I need to pee again," I laugh through my tears and I sniff. "Sorry."

He laughs and strokes my hair affectionately. "Of course you do."

I open my door and Ben does the same, climbing out and going to stand at the front of the truck. I crouch down right by my door, shielded by the side of the truck so he doesn't have to watch me pee. I relieve myself, stand up and zip my pants back in place.

We're on a long stretch of road, with tall swaying trees and bushes to the far side and fields with a drainage ditch on to the other side. It's calm, serene almost as Ben leans against the front of the truck looking into the distance; he turns and looks at me and I smile and walk towards him. His face changes and he screams out before I can reach him, and then he's gone from my sight.

"Ben!" I run to the front of the truck, my hand reaching for the knife that was at my waistband, but it comes up empty. In slow motion, I remember leaving it on my seat and I sob at the realisation of it. As I reach the front of the truck I see Ben on the ground fighting with a deader which has crawled out of the ditch, its legs are a putrid mush attached only by rotting sinew.

It's biting down on his calf muscle, its hands are clawing at his chest and drawing fresh blood.

I can hear groaning coming from somewhere else and as the breeze hits me, so does the smell.

Deaders.

Ben's eyes are wide as he looks up at me from the ground, his hands pulling the zombie's mouth from his legs. How he isn't screaming I don't know, but every effort seems to be in pulling the deader off him.

I freeze. I have no weapon. I run back to my side of the truck, open the door, and reach for the knife on my seat, but see Ben's gun and grab that instead just as a cold dead hand touches my shoulder. I flinch away from it and scream, ducking under and away from the zombie that's behind me.

Its eyes stare blankly at me, its jaw hanging wide, with a rotten tongue lolling to one side. It groans and reaches for me again and I fumble with the gun in my hand, trying to take aim at it. I kick it away and fire, hitting it in the shoulder, yet it doesn't falter from the shot but continues coming for me as if nothing has happened.

I fire again, the second shot taking off part of its face, but doing nothing to impede its progress. I shoot until the gun clicks empty and it crumbles to the ground in a pile of rotten mush.

I charge back to the front of the truck to help Ben and my heart stops.

He stares back at me, his mouth open in a silent scream as two deaders are eating him, their rotten black mouths biting and chewing down on his limbs. He blinks back tears, which trickle out the sides of his eyes. A zombie looks up at me with a growl, releasing Bens arm from its mouth as it stands and comes towards me.

I sob uncontrollably, unable to move. Unable to look away from my husband dying in front of me.

"Ben." I shoot the gun at the zombie that's coming towards me, but it clicks empty and I throw it at it instead. It ricochets off its head, but the zombie is unflinching as it moves towards me.

"Go..."

My eyes go to Ben on the ground. He coughs up blood as he tries to speak. The second zombie's hands are burrowing deeper into the depths of his stomach, and when they pull out a tumble of guts and blood are in its grasp. It buries its face into the mass of internals, smacking its lips with greed.

"Go... Nina..." His eyes widen as the zombie tugs and pulls at his insides again. "Go!" His voice screams at me and I finally find my feet and flee. I run and dive in the driver's side of the truck, Bens seat, and slam the door shut behind me.

The keys are still in the ignition, and my hand quavers on them. I can't see Ben, but I know that he's there. Right in front of the truck, being eaten alive. Begging for the pain to stop.

Another thought hits me. What if he changes into one of them? I scream louder, sobbing until I feel blinded by the tears.

Hot tears stream down my face, and I wipe away the snot that flows from my nose. "Ben!" I scream his name and hit the steering wheel in anger and frustration. The zombie bangs on my window, growling at me, equally angry that it can't reach me. My heart thumps in my chest, my blood rushing through my veins, but through it all I hear him begging me...

"Go, Nina. GO!"

I start the engine, rev it hard, and slip it in gear before I have any second thoughts. I release the handbrake, and the car shoots forwards and I feel and hear the crunch of his bones under my wheels as I drive over my husband.

As I drive away, I look in my rear-view mirror and watch as more zombies come from the tree line and kneel down in front of Ben.

I can only pray that he suffers no more.

I can only pray that it was enough to kill him.

And I can only pray that I did enough to stop him coming back from the dead and becoming one of the deaders.

The sun sets in front of me, and it's as beautiful as when it first rose this morning, only this time I cannot admire nor appreciate its beauty.

Tears still pour down my cheeks, warm and salty, but they do little to relieve the aching in my heart.

How will I survive in this world without Ben? Do I even want to? It was only a week ago that I was trying to end our marriage, yet now I would do anything to relive every damn moment of it.

The sun slips below the hills in front of me, casting an orange glow over the landscape. In the distance I can see trucks and people moving. Could this be it? Were we this close to being saved? Or are they just more of the deaders? I drive towards the outcome regardless, unflinching for my own safety. It doesn't seem to matter anymore. Not without him; without Ben.

As I get closer, I can see a wall being built. Everything from bricks to boulders, to iron pillars are being used to help the wall grow taller. At the moment it's standing about twice as big as Ben used to be, making it impossible from where I am to see inside. Every able man and woman is helping to build it, and I pull the truck to a halt and climb out. The surrounding landscape is slowly being cut back, too. The trees chopped, the ground flattened and there's surprisingly little noise considering what's being done. There are lot of men on guard from what I can see, all with knives and guns.

A man with a gun turns to look at me, his gaze calm and unfaltering.

"What is this?" my voice is hoarse from crying.

"This is sanctuary."

Sanctuary? Could it be?

"Are you staying?" he asks, his voice stern. "We could use more help if so."

Am I staying? I don't know. I look back the way I have just come—towards my past, towards hell and then I look back towards the walls being built—towards the future.

"Yeah, I guess I am."

*About the Author*

**Claire C Riley, is a mother first, a wife second, but a writer at heart.**

Her first novel _Limerence_ is a **dark paranormal romance aged 17+** Claire likes to break boundaries with her writing, incorporating an old school style of horror and romance. Sexy and dark. _(Think Bram Stokers Dracula, but for the 21st century!)_

Claire is currently working on the sequel to _Limerence_ , named **Limerence II: Mia**. She is also in the process of writing a dystopian post-apocalyptic zombie novel called- **Odium.** Life Ever After. Nina's story: Part one is the prequel to Odium.

She is an avid reader of all genres, book collector, general procrastinator and has a great zombie apocalypse plan in place thanks to a questionnaire she asked her readers to fill in for her.

She can be stalked at any of the following.

www.clairecriley.com

https://www.facebook.com/ClaireCRileyAuthor

@ClaireCRiley

Editor for Life Ever After. Nina's story: Part one is Amy Jackson.

NovaFall

by SCOTT J. TONEY

Prologue

Darkness consumed Ineal as the voices tore at his thoughts. The sole survivor of the planet Eon, he wanted to shut off his brain, to destroy his consciousness and be nothing. But the voices would not let him.

The planets' souls, he thought, encased in this meteor hurtling through space. The souls of dead planets destroyed us. I am the last. They take me for their own.

He did not know when the essences of dead planets first came to Eon. Men and women bonded with them, inviting the haunting gaseous essences to their bodies and allowing the essences to become necessary symbiotes of the flesh. The symbiosis with the dead planetary souls gave his people powers and abilities beyond their dreams. But the price, the price of the flesh was great, and an ultimate death of sacrifice and pain was given in return. Ineal was the last, and the only being of Eon who had not accepted them into his flesh.

But you took me, he thought as they spoke with their unintelligible voices, whispering in a constant echo through his mind. When my planet died you came to me. You took my body to keep yourselves alive. They kept him alive too, feeding him their energy as they fed off his living essence.

Millennia of time passed as the meteor orbited the solar system.

Ineal could take no more. Rock pressed against him, suffocating his thoughts.

He closed his mind, pulling blackness from the void beyond and urging it to destroy him and the planetary souls, so that whatever planet they would go to next might be spared.

His mind's darkness came. He forgot speech. He forgot sight. He forgot love. But the essences would not release his life force and the greatness it had become in their harnessing embrace. They would not allow him to forget primal sense.

Then, in that rawness of life, where he was barely being at all, he sensed a planet. They had intended this new planet as their destination from the start.

The essences' telekinetic connection pulled away from him, severing the symbiosis and sending searing heat through his form.

There was a moment of silence for Ineal, of freedom. Then came the violent crack of stone, as meteor met planet. A great boom consumed him. Ineal's consciousness was lost... almost. But his essence lingered somehow in the planet's form.

The planetary essences fled their transport, consuming life and searching for prey.

*

Moments Before

Ivanus stood in awe, watching the radiant orb and its tail of fire growing larger and larger in the sky.

He stood in the market of the city of Asil. Men and women ran frantically around him, while others did as he did, watching death come down. It had been prophesied that the meteor would come, and then the world would die of fire.

It radiated an eerie red hue.

Ivanus shut out the sounds around him. There was silence looming past the screams of his city's people.

A vast burning ring ripped in his planet's atmosphere as the meteor punched through.

A second passed.

It hit as if in slow motion, pummeling the earth miles before him, and a massive shockwave blinked the plants, city and people from existence.

But in that instant, something punched Ivanus through his skin and muscle. It held his body solid while he watched the world flatten in the meteor's wake. He watched as glowing spirits splintered and burst forth from the crag.

His stomach lurched. Black swelled over him. His body disappeared from the expanse of the land, leaving nothing where he once stood. He was gone from that time.

When Ivanus opened his eyes, centuries later, radiant sunlight burned his retinas. Before him, a woman screamed in pain.

*

The other side of the planet

After the meteor came the essences sought out beings to be their hosts. People proved to be most compatible. They were given great powers because of them, but not without cost. The more they used their powers, the more the planetary essences devoured their life force.

Markings covered the bodies of the essences' hosts, streams of boiled flesh burned into their victims as proof of what would ultimately be given to possess the supernatural abilities and the great power that came with them.

Men died and new men rose to connect with the essences in their wake. Again and again the cycle went.

But that was not always the way. There were a select few who could control the coming death and harness it, keeping themselves alive almost indefinitely. A great Bishop and leader of men was one of these.

Samuel was one of the first to discover that the essences had power. His faith in his lord and master was great, surpassed only by Samuel's love of that God. At first he used his power to him to pull as many followers to his God as possible and teach them the ways of peace. But as he sustained his life his followers died. The planet was consumed, its vegetation devoured by the heat of its two suns and the life-draining power of the essences. Seas turned to lava. The sky darkened, and so did Samuel's heart.

He turned on his God, knowing that his God did not exist, that no true God would let this suffering come to the world. And in his ages of life he turned on goodness and was consumed by desire, desire to control and manipulate the world to serve him.

Samuel used his power to attract people to him. He turned them not only to his worshipers, but fighters in his name, conquering civilizations all over the dying planet and turning them to his slaves. Any who neared him to overthrow him were encased in their minds, while their bodies were turned into his loyal warriors.

He was God of a planet whose only greatness of life was supported by the symbiotic essences. His reign and power would be eternal.

Then one day, centuries after he first discovered the essences, he looked out over the lava sea beyond his citadel and knew. There were new planetary essences out there that had not been on his planet before. He sensed someone who could overthrow him, someone he would need to search out and destroy.

Samuel stretched his boil-singed hands, smiling at the burning sensation that coursed through him. "Come," he spoke into the hot, rust-flecked wind that curled over his body. "You will only die."
Chapter 1

Raw, hot wind whipped over Julieth as she ran barefoot across red earth. A mesh mask covered her face to protect her from the rust-wind. Her chest heaved heavily.

Battle raged in her city, miles behind her, and though there was nowhere to run, to stay would mean death. Since the arrival of the essences to the planet, those who connected with them used their powers to rule and destroy powerless humans of the world. A half metallic man sent by the great Bishop, Samuel, now butchered her city with the help of mercenary warriors. The conflict had gone on for mere days, yet already the structures of the city lay scorched and warped on the earth.

With a bow and arrow clenched in one hand, and a ten-year-old boy from her city clutching her other, Julieth fled as quickly as she could. If I am lucky, she thought, once they defeat my people and take them to enslave, we can return and find food stores to sustain us for one or two weeks. The land was barren of vegetation and most animals, but her city possessed a machine from the fallen ages, which created synthetic food to sustain what remained of humanity. She couldn't operate it, but some of the synthetic food would surely remain.

Julieth stopped for a moment. Something was wrong on the horizon. A spark of light grew larger and larger as it approached. Her auburn hair whipped in the harsh wind. Have they discovered us? Her vision shook and a crack resounded in the air, deafening her for an instant.

"Come to me!" she called to the boy.

She touched his back with her hand as he came, and then was blinded by radiant light.

Julieth's body thrust back as ethereal gasses burned her flesh, ripping through her body. She pummeled to the red soil and cried out. Hot pain surged in her chest and back as she struggled to stand. What has happened to Bayne? she thought while realizing she didn't hear the boy's voice. What was that?

Julieth forced back the pain and braced herself, standing. Darkness swelled in her sight, but soon she made out the silhouette of the mountains in the distance and a form standing before her.

"Bayne?" she asked, stumbling toward it. No, it is too tall for him. She stopped, fear raking through her. It hunched over, its form slowly more distinguishable in her returning sight.

"Where... where am I?" a young man's voice asked.

"Don't come near us," she warned, picking her bow off the ground and knocking back an arrow from her quiver in aim.

The man heeded her, but looked around in confusion. "Where is Asil? Where is the meteor?"

"Asil?" Julieth asked, seeing Bayne lying limp on the ground nearby, his chest rising and falling. Her back throbbed in pulsing pain. What was happening to her? "The city of Asil was destroyed when the meteor came long ago," she said. "It was here, but now this is a barren land." She watched the young man, her arrow cocked at him as he looked around in disbelief. "And the remnants of the meteor are in the earth in the distance. You look as if you truly do not believe me. Where were you raised, that you do not know these things?"

The man rubbed his brow. "But they were just here," he said. "My head is foggy." A look of certainty came to his eyes. "What is the year?"

What is his game? She needed to lose him and escape with Bayne, that or kill him and leave him here. "3906," she said, watching him intently as he did not react.

"It was 3674 a moment ago. The meteor was coming down." He suddenly seemed to notice something beneath his shirt, touching it as he looked down.

Julieth recognized the vibrant marking the moment she saw its glow. He is one of them. She did not hesitate, only let the bowstring slip from her fingertips, its arrow shaft splicing toward his skull.

Before she loosed it, his hand was already moving before his head, right where the arrow shot. He clasped its shaft in his fist and pulled it away.

Julieth backed away from him, fear coursing through her chest and across her skin. Who was this man?

The man took a step toward her. "Hear me, please. I am from when the meteor crashed. I think I must have moved through time. I am somehow sensing what will happen for miles around us, moments before the time actually comes, as well. It's coming in blips of energy in my mind, but I see it."

Julieth cocked another arrow back in her bow, holding it steady in aim. It won't work against him, she thought after seeing him pull the other arrow from the air, but it is the only protection I have. "What do you see, and how can I know you won't harm us?"

"A people a great distance from us are dying as a man with mechanical limbs leads warriors against them. These people fight, but are losing ground."

Julieth stood beside Bayne, measuring whether she should lift the boy and try to escape, or attempt to flee alone. "If you were one of them, you would know that. Leave us, if you are who you say you are, and do not head in that direction."

"I am Ivanus, and I cannot leave. I have no place to..." he stopped speaking, watching her with a look of awe on his face. "Step away from the boy. I cannot tell you what is going to happen. But you will not want to be near him."

"What?" Julieth asked, stepping away from Bayne, though she didn't know why she listened to Ivanus. A deep pain suddenly struck her chest and back as her sight went red. She opened her mouth to scream, but was in such pain she could not make a sound.

She fell to the ground, clenching earth with her hands and barely seeing Ivanus dragging Bayne's limp body away from her. Her back quaked as something ripped from her flesh. It felt like a writhing serpent, moving, but still connected to her. A moment later another surge of pain struck her as another massive thing burst out of her back. A slimy substance was around her on the red soil. The pain receded as regular sight returned. Feathers blew in the wind away from her, covered in the same gooey substance that was on the earth around her body.

"You have wings!" Ivanus called out nearby. "Vast, beautiful wings. I didn't know what they were when I saw them in my sight."

What is he saying? Julieth worked through the remaining pain, trying to pull together her thoughts. She could move the things protruding from her back, and could feel them as if they were her limbs. What is going on? Do I really have wings? She could believe it, if she had somehow bonded with an essence, but had never seen wings in person before. All species of flight perished shortly after the meteor, except for one man who had been possessed by the essences. He was rumored to be part dragon, but she had never seen him.

Whatever struck me when Ivanus arrived, those must have been essences from his time, if he is telling the truth. Julieth touched her chest where the things had entered her, and then reached around her back to feel for their markings. Her hands touched slime, and then the intricate patterns of fresh muscle and feathers. A shiver ran through her and she used the new muscles protruding from her back to curve her wings before her and into her sight. She was in awe as she looked at their ivory white feathers. They are a part of me, she thought in surreal wonder.

Julieth looked back at Ivanus. Can I trust him? she thought, approaching him and suddenly unafraid. Ivanus laid Bayne on the earth and walked away before she could tell him to.

"You are beautiful," Ivanus said. "Is that what the markings do, give people physical and mental traits? Why would they do that to you, and then do this to me?"

Julieth kneeled and touched Bayne's back, noticing the color markings of an essence seared in the top of his spine. When will his ability manifest? Why has it not yet? she wondered. "Are you really from the past?" she asked him. "You do not know these things? I suppose it would explain a lot. And if these are new essences in us from the meteor, then they will kill us slower than the essences bonded with others, that have connected to multiple people since the meteor's crash."

"Kill us? Essences?" Ivanus exclaimed, genuine fear in his eyes.

He cannot be faking that, Julieth thought. "Yes, they are the essences of planets long dead, their souls, I am told. And as you use your abilities given by the essences, your life-force will slowly drain away." The realization washed over her that this was her fate now, too, but there was no way to remove them once they bonded with your flesh. I need these wings and this man, to save my people. There is no other way.

"Ivanus, the city you sense close by, is my own," she spoke in desperation. "In blood its people are yours as well, because the few survivors of your city when the meteor came, fled to where my city is now. I must go back, to save my people, and I need you by my side. Before you came, my people had no essences or abilities and no chance to turn back our enemy, but with your sight and my wings, we might have a chance."

Ivanus walked toward her. "I know nothing definitively of what has happened to me, and less about how to control it. And what can we do, a man who sees things only seconds before they happen and a woman with wings? I cannot fight. I was a Stone-Smith in my city and have never wielded a weapon."

Julieth looked at him. "You pulled an arrow from the air with your hands. Surely there is much in you that you may not know, but which will give us a chance. Besides, what else will you do? You do not know this time. Without help, you may perish."

"And the boy?" Ivanus asked hesitantly. "He needs medical attention. A battlefield is not the place for a boy as injured as he appears."

"Kaskal is the only city for a great distance. If he is to be healed, then that, my city, is the only place he can go. And besides, an essence has connected with his flesh as well. It will not allow him to die yet, at least not of natural causes, because it is so fresh in his body."

Ivanus hesitated as a harsh wind cut around them.

Heat baked Julieth's back. Somehow that heat invigorated her, giving her strength through the veins in her wings and drying the goop from their forms. "I am Julieth, and this is Bayne." She held out her hand. "Will you help us fight for my people?"

Ivanus took her hand and embraced it with his own. "I will go there with you and do what I can. But I make no promises of if I will stay if your city falls." He let loose her hand, looking over the barren landscape behind her and closing his eyes.

"What is it? Do you see something there?" Julieth asked.

"Your people need us quickly. If those wings allow you to fly, then you could move with speed, but how am I and the boy to join you?"

Julieth felt a surge of strength as she spread her vast feathered wings, pumping them and lifting quickly into the air. The wings' muscles were warm against her back as she beat them and hovered in the sky above Ivanus and Bayne. She curved her wings in the rushing wind and soared upward away from them, then curved them again and rushed down. "They are strong," she said while landing and stirring soil from the ground. "I could carry Bayne in my arms until we reach Kaskal." She was desperate. There was no time. Grasping, she asked, "What if you rode my back?"

"It will work."

Ivanus's mind was registering the future again. It frightened Julieth that she could see his ability manifesting so easily. He walked behind her, going between her outstretched wings and clasping tight with his hands on her shoulders, holding his body close to hers.

"Hold on," Julieth said, pumping her wings and lifting to the sky, then diving low and hefting Bayne's limp body in her arms from the earth in a swoop.

Barren soil swept by beneath her as she flew, harnessing flight fully for the first time. She had never seen the planet like this before. The crimson earth below was carved with shells of rusted out structures that once stood like titans on its form.

Wind made it hard to breathe, and her hearing was lessened as it pounded her eardrums. Ivanus was heavy on her back. If he could speak in the battering wind, he did not.

In the distance she saw the city of Kaskal and its broken buildings littering the earth. A tall, vast wall surrounded the city, but it was breached multiple times. Blasts of light burst across the city, and though she was still far off, she knew what they were.

"He has guns!" Ivanus said loudly as he leaned close to her ear. "But his warriors do not!"

"Guns?" Julieth asked. "I have not heard of 'guns', but this man harnesses weapons that bare lightning to the world, destroying all that their energy touches!"

"They are guns! I remember them from my time, though I have never seen ones so advanced! What do we do with the boy if he does not awaken before we arrive?"

Julieth tried not to focus on the encompassing, beautiful feeling of her wings pumping air and the embrace of wind curling over them. If I live, there will be time for that later. It was as if the essences in her body wanted her to focus on her power, instead of the people and city she loved. "You are the one who can see within the city walls!" she shouted to Ivanus above the wind. "Where do you think I should set him down?"

"I see time as it will be, not as it is!" Ivanus called back. "But I sense the basement of a destroyed home within the city that is far from the fighting! Bayne should be safe there!" He clutched tight to her shoulders as she curved and cut through the sky toward Kaskal, nearing quickly in the distance.

"I will need you to guide me, and we may be struck out of the sky before we can even land!" Julieth looked down to the child she clutched in her arms as she flew. His hair wove over his face in the currents. He looked lifeless, and yet she felt his heartbeat through her palms.

They approached quickly through the sky, the only thing airborne near this walled city in the middle of a vast desert.

BOOM! An explosion ripped through the front of the city.

"Head away from the blast!" Ivanus called out as he clutched tight on Julieth's left shoulder to signal her.

A bolt of electricity cracked the air and shot near them as they dove, striking out from where the explosion in the city had been. It sent static through her wings, causing her to lose command of her wing-muscles for a split second, then regain control and curve toward the city's back wall.

"Dive!" Ivanus shouted and Julieth listened as another column of electricity struck up at them from below.

Smoke roiled around them as Julieth dove into Kaskal's ruins. People shouted in fear and bodies littered the stone-cobbled streets.

BOOM! Another blast from the front of the city shook the structures around them as Julieth landed roughly on the street.

Ivanus let go of her shoulders and began running down an alleyway nearby. The tops of the alley's buildings were gone, crumbled down in the hulls of their structures. Soot marked their clay walls. "This way!" he shouted to her.

She retracted her wings and ran wearily after him while clutching Bayne tightly in her arms. People stared at her in fear and awe, not knowing what to think of their fellow woman returning to them with wings on her back.

Ivanus turned into a structure that was half her height, disappearing down a stairwell and into a dark chamber that was apparently once a basement or storage room.

Julieth was behind him, rushing into the near darkness until she came to him, standing in a corner of the chamber where several cots lined a wall.

"There is someone here I've been watching through my sight, who I think can be trusted," Ivanus said. "Come out, we mean you no harm!" he sang into the dark.

A moment later a disheveled woman appeared holding a candle, out of an underground passageway. The candle's light danced about them. "Julieth, is that you?" she asked. "I had heard you fled us." She gasped as she saw Julieth's wings.

"Yes, Sara, it is me. I had no choice. We would have died." Julieth took Bayne and gently laid him on the nearest cot. "I have come into contact with essences from the meteor. They are part of me now, and they are also a part of this man I come with. Will you watch over Bayne as I see what I can do to fight our enemy? If I die, I will need you to protect him."

"We will all die," Sara said as she touched Bayne's face, a hard look on the woman's features. "But yes, I will watch over him." Sara's eyes looked to Julieth's bow, still strung over her shoulder. "There are arrows tipped with fire-powder at the base of that wall." She motioned into a darker portion of the chamber. "Take them, they are no use to me."

"Thank you." Julieth laid her hand on Sara's shoulder. "Is there a weapon here my friend could use, a sword perhaps?"

"My husband's sword and shield lie near the arrows. Take them. He died yesterday as a surge of fire rained down on us."

"I am sorry. He was a good man," Julieth said while taking the arrows in her hands and loading them in her quiver. The sword was small, but would have to do. "Here, use this." She handed it to Ivanus and then did the same with the thin metallic shield.

"But I have never wielded a sword." He clutched the sword and shield awkwardly as he stood.

"When the time comes, pray that your sight serves you. May you wield a sword for the first time like you did your abilities while taking my arrow. Have confidence in yourself. It is the only way any of us will make it from today to tomorrow alive."

They ran up out of the mouth of the basement's darkness quickly, the light and heat of the planet's two suns blanketing them as they rose once more into the broken city's shell. "Where do we go?" Julieth asked Ivanus, hoping he could see where their enemies would soon be, through his sight.

BOOM! An explosion went off a distance away from them and the screams of a woman pierced their thoughts.

"Toward her voice." Ivanus rushed to Julieth's side, working hard to firmly support the sword and shield. The planet's rust-flecked wind stung their faces. "The woman will die soon, but there are others who need us."

Another scream pierced the air as Ivanus ran after Julieth into a wider street. "I cannot support you with the sword and shield," she said while looking to Ivanus. "You'll have to make your way to the front of the city on your own. If you need me, call out, and if I hear you, I will come." I just met this man, she thought, and already I feel a deep trust and alliance to him. Is that because we are both connected through the essences forging to us?

Julieth extended her wings fully to her sides as the few people in the street around them kept their distance. Sunlight shattered off her wings' forms as she thrust them downward, pumping upward above the city and watching as Ivanus made his way through the maze of debris battered streets below.

She took a moment to scan the cityscape and saw a massive group of her people defending a building a distance away. That is where the synthetic food creator is, she thought, realizing that if the structure fell, this could be her people's last stand. Why have I returned? A wave of heat surged through her. I have no family here, and few friends. Leaving had been easy to justify when she was just one regular woman and knew she would make no difference if she stayed to defend her home. But with this new ability, I have to fight for my home.

Julieth drew a fire-powder tipped arrow from her quiver and cocked it back in her bowstring. With a pulse of her wings she dove low, hugging above the remains of houses and stores lining the streets.

As she neared the fighting, she saw the mercenary fighters who had come with the metallic man, slowly driving back her people. Their armor was black as night and their swords were red with the blood of human life. Bodies littered the ground around them.

Julieth aimed at the front mercenary's torso and let her arrow fly, watching as it exploded on contact with his body, killing him and several fighters around him. Some of her people looked up at her and cheered, while others used the opportunity to force their way forward.

Swords met swords and cries of death rang through the air. Arrows from archers volleyed between the groups.

Julieth caught a current of wind and moved behind the enemy as arrows barely missed her from below. She became more and more adept with the movements of flight. I have harnessed my ability as quickly as Ivanus has harnessed his, she thought, and then wondered why she hadn't seen him below in the fighting yet. Does he see something in the future and know a different place to go? It was useless. Ivanus was not with her, and without him she would not know until the time came.

Pulling another fire-powder tipped arrow carefully from her quiver, she looked for the best place to aim. She was high enough now that the mercenary's arrows could not reach her and the enemy was refocusing their attention fully on her people once more.

Where are you? she wondered of the metallic man, knowing he was lurking somewhere below. And why aren't you with your men?

A static charge rushed over her flesh and she began to fall as a column of blue electricity surged up at her from below, barely missing her body, and only because she lost control before it came.

"No!" she screamed, and then finally was able to beat her wings and brace herself in the wind. She instantly let the arrow fly to where the electricity originated. It exploded, toppling the wall of a clay home. In the smoke she saw the metallic man aiming some sort of weapon at her. The whole right side of his body was a metal skeleton and sunlight radiated off its parts. The weapon radiated blue and she dove away as static burst over her flesh, another burst of electricity pulsing past her only breaths away.

Julieth let her body free-fall, hoping the man would mistake her for dead and she could land in a portion of the city that was blocked from his vision. Blood rushed to her head and her mind was heavy. As soon as she was beyond his sight, she braced her wings in the wind and glided to a street below.

I am only blocks from him, she thought, knowing he would come check where she fell. Julieth cocked another fire-powdered arrow in her bowstring and ducked in an ash-covered building close by. The air was dense as she stood in the darkness of the doorway, her arrow ready to fire. Will a fire-powdered arrow kill you? she wondered, knowing that it probably wouldn't and shivering while anticipating her death.

An instant later a beam of electricity struck across her vision, exploding the home across from her and sending fragments of its walls through the air.

"You cannot hide from me," a metallic voice spoke out, through the cloud of smoke rising from the toppled, scorched structure. Soon she could see him walking through the street. He stood taller than any man she'd seen before. Gears moved and adjusted in his cybernetic arm and leg. His build was large and his metallic limbs were built to match.

I have no chance, she thought, watching in stricken awe as the cyborg turned toward her, a metallic eye shifting from orange to red while examining her structure.

Her fingers loosed the bowstring as her arrow punched his chest and exploded, knocking him backwards and causing him to stumble before leveling his weapon at her building.

Julieth ran full force, pulling an arrow from her quiver and loading it, ready to let it fly as she pumped her wings and took to the air. She took a breath, bracing for the death that would come when his weapon fired, but as she looked down she saw Ivanus charging across a rooftop close by and leaping through the air, crashing down on the cyborg with his shield on his back and sword held high.

Clash! Ivanus's blade beat the cyborg's metallic arm, glancing off but taking one of the man's metal fingers with the blow. Ivanus stammered. She saw a smirk on his face as the cyborg leveled his weapon at him.

Julieth's second arrow found the cyborg's torso, exploding and sending him to the ground. As she loaded another arrow, the borg fired its electricity on her, punching through one of her wings and sending her toppling to a rooftop not far below.

Her back and wings burned, but she could not stop. She cocked another arrow and ran across the rooftop, aiming at the borg while leaping from the rooftop to the street. Ivanus was in close contact with him, dealing blow after blow to the man's metallic exterior, and at the same time avoiding blasts from the man's weapon. He has amazing reflexes, she thought. She would not be able to fire on the cyborg without injuring Ivanus.

"Ivanus!" she called. "Escape so that I can fire!"

The cyborg kicked Ivanus with his massive foot, sending him stumbling back, and then leveled his weapon on her.

As the electric blast came, Julieth fired, her arrow exploding as it made contact with the electricity beam and sending a shockwave through the street before knocking them both back.

The cyborg leveled his weapon again, glowing blue radiating in the weapon's barrel, and Julieth felt a sudden wave of darkness consume her.

She fell limp to the cobble street below.
Chapter 2

Moments Before

Darkness.

Bayne could not see, could not think. Hollow nothing surrounded him. It rose and bloomed from the depths of his soul, its tendrils wrapping his limbs and pulling down his mind.

Then, with a burst of light, the darkness was gone. Bayne awoke, his hands touching cloth he did not recognize. Dark surrounded him as beams of light shone down from above; illuminating the floor of the room where he lay.

"Bayne, are you awake?" a familiar voice came from nearby. "Please, wait for me, I am coming."

The last he remembered, he held Julieth's hand as the two of them ran to escape Kaskal and its attackers. "Where... where am I? Am I in Kaskal?" he asked the woman he recognized from the city.

She came to him, putting a moist cloth on his forehead.

His eyes slowly adjusted. "Where is Julieth? Why are we here?" He braced his arm shakily on the cot's side, fighting back nausea as he stood.

"She has returned to fight our enemy and has come into contact with the essences."

The essences... he thought, his memory murky. Where would they have been? Bayne was young, barely ten years of age, but in this world of wars and famine had been forced to grow up quickly. He knew all about them, their powers and the possession they took of the people who they bonded with.

"I need to go to her." He looked up at the woman standing over him. "Since my parents died, her and my brother are all I have."

"Bayne, neither of us can do anything to save Kaskal." The woman put her hand to his forehead, checking for fever. "We must stay here and hope they return safely."

"I will do as you say," Bayne said, watching the woman's eyes and calculating what he needed to do. "Do you have anything to eat?" he asked.

"Let me check the storage chamber," she said, turning and heading away from him toward a hollowed-out hole in the room's wall.

He took his opportunity, moving as swiftly as he could without making a noise, shuffling quietly up the staircase leading to the sunlight.

"Bayne! Bayne!" he heard the woman shouting for him to return.

Light blinded him as he left the destroyed structure and stepped onto the street. He squinted, looking up to the double suns above and then tightening the mesh mask over his face. Bayne ran swiftly towards the end of the alleyway, bounding through the streets closer and closer to the city's front. Where has Julieth gone? he wondered.

He knew he had to find her. If what the woman had said was true, then he did not know what would happen to his life, but he yearned to be beside the woman who had shown him such care.

Bayne stopped for a moment and looked down at a man's dead body in the shadows close by. Blood seeped from an arrow wound in the man's chest. It sickened him. The boy reached down and touched the man's open eyelids, pulling them down over his eyes.

"Rest," he said, "and send my love to my mother and father for me in the next world."

He ran on, weaving through streets and ducking away from conflicts until he noticed the beautiful winged creature in the sky. Sunlight illuminated her form as he looked on her in awe. It took a moment, but as he stood there watching in the middle of the vacant street he realized he knew her form, without the wings behind her. "Julieth," he spoke, half voicing his knowledge and half questioning reality.

The screams of his people dying sounded in the distance and he shivered with fear. I will die in these streets today, he thought, somehow resigned to that fact after watching his people fend off many attacks during his short life, but none like what came upon them now. His older brother was somewhere in the city. Are you alive, Andral? Julieth had insisted they had no time to search out Andral before they fled. And yet she brought me back to this place. Wherever you are, Andral, I hope you live. I hope you would forgive me for leaving you.

A sudden flash of blue light cut across Julieth's winged body in the distance. Bayne's heartbeat quickened and his feet were heavy on the street as he ran in her direction. She fell from the sky and out of his view.

He darted through a series of backstreets, moving quicker and quicker, determined to assist her. He had no weapon, no physical strength, but somehow he would help her.

A loud noise cracked nearby, and soon he pivoted onto the street where Julieth fell.

Bayne froze, seeing two men fighting each other in the middle of the street not far from him and Julieth, clearly wounded but coming toward a man with metallic limbs.

He watched in horror while seeing the cyborg level its weapon at her. Fear took over. "No!" he shouted.

A wave of energy exploded from Bayne's body, felling the cyborg, the other man and Julieth to the ground. They did not move.

Bayne held his hands before him, stunned by what had just happened, not knowing what caused it. What was more bizarre was that there was complete silence, outside of the wind, where just before the sounds of battle sounded around the city. What is going on?

It only took a moment, and then after seeing no movement from the cyborg or anyone else Bayne ran as fast as he could to Julieth's side. Her body was limp but he could feel her heartbeat in her veins.

He touched her palm, feeling the warmth of her skin and holding it tight to his chest. "Wake up," he said. "I need you." Feathers from her wings ruffled in the wind, but there was no reply.

He walked close to the cyborg and watched as the gears in his leg and arm spun and clicked. The borg's body was half flesh, half metallic. Lines of boiled flesh covered his skin and there were markings from the possession of an essence on his cybernetic hand. The borg's one metallic eye glowed an eerie red, and then slowly transformed to a soft electric-blue.
Chapter 3

A steady, aching pulse surged through Julieth's mind as she opened her eyes. Sunlight blinded her from above. Her body sweltered in the heat and her throat was parched. The mesh mask she wore clung to her face, digging into its form. She reached up slowly, grabbing the mask with her hand and tearing it away. The essences would protect her from the rust-wind. There was no need to wear it any longer.

"Ugh." Her body ached as she lay in the street where she fell. Why am I not dead? In the sunlight, looking out over the street, she saw the cyborg motionless on the ground. A faint blue light glowed from his metallic eye. Ivanus also lay motionless in the corner of her vision.

Her heart raced. She heard nothing but the wind. How could that be? she wondered, and then braced herself to stand. Surely his weapon would have killed me. What is happening? She reached back to where her wing had been hit by the cyborg's blast, feeling fresh muscle and goop where the hole had been. Tiny feathers poked through the flesh. She could not feel it healing, but instead felt a throbbing pain in the center of her back.

What is that sound? Julieth thought, hearing a muffled noise close by. She scanned the street, at first seeing nothing but the cyborg and Ivanus's bodies, but as she listened to the low noise she saw a youth's figure in the shadows, hunched against a building's wall. It held its head in its hands. It was crying.

Bayne? she thought, careful to be stealth as she went to him. She caught the breeze in her wings and used it to lift her higher on her feet so that she could not be heard. It was him, she could see him clearly now as she approached.

"Bayne," she said lowly, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Why are you here?"

Bayne startled and then calmed as he looked up at Julieth, wiping tears from his eyes. He stood up to embrace her. "I thought you would die," he said, shaking in her arms. "What happened? One moment the metallic man was aiming his weapon at you, and the next a force hit and you all fell to the ground."

"I don't know." She continued holding the boy and wrapped her wings around them both. We are not safe, she thought, keeping her eyes fixed on the borg. Whatever did this, the effects wore off on me and could wear off on them as well.

Julieth suddenly realized the opportunity that presented itself. "Stay here," she told Bayne. She lifted into the air, just slightly off the ground, and flew near the metallic man. I do not want to kill, she thought, but you have left me no choice. And you may not be a man at all, because you certainly don't have the heart of one. She slowly drew a fire-powdered arrow from her quiver and leveled it at the cyborg's skull. She was about to release it when she heard him speak.

"Samuel," the borg mumbled in subconscious distress. "...no...no, I will not. You cannot have me." He jolted and then grabbed his weapon. Blue light charged up the gun and over his limbs as he leveled the weapon at an empty part of the street, blasting a hole in a structure with a massive burst of electricity.

A second later, a contingent of his mercenary warriors turned into the street and charged with swords drawn to attack Julieth and Ivanus.

"No! You cannot have me!" The cyborg leveled his weapon at the mercenaries and fired again and again, disintegrating them and spreading the remains of their bodies over the street. He staggered backwards. "Who are you?" he asked Julieth in shaking panic, aiming the weapon at her. "Where is Samuel?"

Julieth was taken aback. The cyborg had seemingly helped them. "The great bishop Samuel is far away from us," she told him while keeping her arrow trained on his forehead. "He sent you to destroy our city."

"No... it can't be," the borg said. "I was there. I was so close. He must have entered my mind."

"You are in Kaskal. Do you mean my people harm?" she asked him.

"No." He lowered his weapon, a look of exhaustion and loss in his eyes.

This could all be a ruse, Julieth thought, unwilling to lower her arrow. "Then put down your weapon so that I can restrain you."

The borg leveled the weapon at her again. "A warrior is not controlled."

Ivanus had come to, staggering in their direction, his sword and shield braced before him. As he reached them he laid his sword on the ground and reached a hand out. "May I touch you?"

The borg did not answer, but did not move to avoid Ivanus.

Ivanus placed a hand on his skin, closing his eyes and then opening them. "He has neither a good nor an evil heart. I can sense that in him. And somehow, because there are essences in us both, I believe I can sense he means what he says."

"Then I will trust you as well." The borg lay his gun before him, and then kicked it forward with his massive mechanical leg. "I am Riad," he spoke. "I attacked Samuel's citadel, and had him in my sights before falling to darkness and awakening here."

Ivanus picked up his sword and came near Julieth as she landed on the cobble street. Bayne was behind them, watching intently. The sounds of battle reemerged in their ears.

"You can trust him," Ivanus said. "I can 'see' that he will let you restrain him."

"Are you positive?" she asked, her arrow ready to loose at the borg's skull.

"Yes."

Riad held his hands behind his back and turned. The gears moving in the wrist of his cybernetic hand gave her pause.

Julieth reached back to a pocket on her quiver, removing a silver tube and pressing it against the borg's flesh wrist. Instantly a chain of light circled his wrists, tightly binding them together. She looked to Ivanus. "Leave the sword and take his gun. We need to move him deeper in the city, to the prison, so that we can continue to fight. Bayne cannot remain here, either."

"Wait," the borg's metallic voice spoke. He slowly turned to face them. "I can be much more useful as an ally, than as a prisoner."

"You led them here." Julieth re-aimed her arrow. "We can't trust you."

"You could keep my gun and energy mines. That weapon could destroy me with a few blasts." He eyed the gun in Ivanus's hands. "With just my limbs I could be of use."

Julieth looked to Ivanus. "What do you think? Do we trust him?"

Ivanus closed his eyes for a moment, as if sensing something. "There are many of the mercenary army remaining. He would greatly increase our odds. I am not a warrior, and I do not know about you, but here we have a man who seems to know war."

BOOM! A loud blast rang from close by and smoke roiled above them across the rooftops.

Julieth put her arrow back in her quiver and slung her bow over her back. "Where are the mines?" she asked. A compartment on his cybernetic arm clicked open and she looked at ten mines that were being held there. "You can keep them," she said, realizing that to have them on her could prove just as dangerous as Riad keeping them. The compartment closed again, without being touched. This man could break free of my restraint, she realized. With the tap of her finger to the tube of the restraint, the chain of light retracted. She took the tube and placed it back in her quiver's pocket.

"We are needed," Ivanus said as another blast shook the ground beneath them.

Julieth looked back at Bayne. "Head back!" she called to him. "Stay in the shadows! We will meet up when the enemy either retreats or is destroyed!"

Bayne hesitated for a moment and then went to Ivanus's discarded shield, hefting it before him as protection. "Be safe!" Bayne called out. "I lost my mother! I cannot lose you!"

Julieth watched as he disappeared down an alleyway behind them. "You will need to lead us," she told Ivanus, "because you can see what we cannot."

"Most of the enemy is in the city's center," Ivanus said. "And we could use the streets, but we will probably be discovered."

"You sound as if you have something else in mind," Julieth said.

"Yes, did you know of the underground passages beneath Kaskal?"

"I vaguely remember being there once as a youth," Juieth told him. "Are you saying those passages can help us now?"

"They are not being used, and there is an entrance to them not far off. Will you be able to travel in a more confined space, without damaging your wings?"

Julieth thought of how fast her wing healed after taking the blast from Riad's weapon. "It seems that I will need to."

She quickly followed Ivanus, with Riad beside her, careful to keep a close eye on the borg. He was still a threat and she didn't know what she would do about him once the conflict was ended, but she had made the decision to trust him now, and she could not change her mind. They reached an older storefront with a sagging roof and the trio ducked in its entranceway.

"Over here." Ivanus motioned to them as he kneeled on timeworn planks of wood. Wooden floors were scarce, because for so long trees and other vegetation had been gone from the planet. Portions of the wood floor were worn away and clay earth had replaced where they had been. But where Ivanus pointed, Julieth saw metal where pieces of plank were missing.

"A door?" Julieth asked.

"A passageway." Ivanus propped his large gun on the floor and gripped a metallic latch that rose up from the wood. He strained, but could not open the latch.

"Use the weapon," Julieth said, while backing away from the passageway.

Riad did not move.

Ivanus braced the gun in both hands and backed away. Light exploded in the room as a blast erupted, disintegrating the door as metallic smoke swept over them, and then lingered in the air.

As smoke dissipated from the blast, Julieth saw that the passageway beneath where the door had been was completely black. "How do we see?" she asked.

"I can see in the dark, through my cybernetic eye," Riad said as he approached the jagged opening. "And I can help with your sight as well." Crevices over his cybernetic arm and leg lit with blue light. The borg reached over, touching the gun, and it also vibrantly lit with blue. "We will need to extinguish the light before we reemerge, but it should work well."

"Agreed." Julieth took the restraint tube from her quiver's pack and touched it to her wrist. The light chain swept around it, providing its faint glow.

They descended carefully into the darkness of the tunnel, rusted lamps lining its walls and the skeletons of long-dead animals littering the floor. The light of Riad's cybernetics and of the gun Ivanus held gave off an eerie glow as they cautiously made their way toward the city's center.

"These passages have not been used in so long," Julieth said as she led up the rear. "And this portion seems to have been completely forgotten." She took a regular arrow from her quiver and strung it back in her bow, aiming it forward at Riad, but prepared to instantly adjust should some other enemy surprise them in the labyrinth of underground veins spidering beneath the streets.

A chilled breeze swept over Julieth, sending goose bumps over her flesh and pricking the tissue of her wings where feathers attached. She was amazed at how certainly Ivanus led them, and at how well he could know their city without being from there.

The tunnel carved out of earth slowly began taking shape before them, changing from more of a burrow to a square passage with a worn stone walk. Dust-covered signs marked the walls. Julieth eyed steel doors and dark passages as they passed. What was this place used for, she wondered, and why have my people not used it for centuries?

Ivanus halted suddenly and Riad and Julieth stopped with him.

"Bayne will reach safety soon," Ivanus spoke back to Julieth. "I can sense it."

"Thank you," she replied in lowered voice. "Do we near the depth of the fighting?"

"Shortly." Ivanus's voice came back to her. "I wanted to speak here, where I knew we could not be heard. Your people battle the largest group of mercenaries nearby."

"Once we are beneath them we can strike," Julieth spoke, "destroying the street above with Riad's weapon and fighting our way from inside where the enemy holds its position. And it will be important that once we are above ground, Riad strikes the enemy hard and where he is visible. If he is not quickly known to have joined our side, then the people of Kaskal may attack us as well."

"I will make sure to be seen," Riad said. "And might I suggest we use a mine for the street above, and not the gun."

"You know these weapons best," Ivanus said and led them forward again. "We must go now, to have the moment we need to strike."

"How do you know it is the right moment?" Julieth asked. "Just because you see the future does not mean it will work out well."

Ivanus turned to her, the electric blue light sending waves of illumination and shadow over his features. "You're right, I don't know what would be best, but I do know what will happen for a few moments beyond now. We will be there. We will fight at the time I see now. It is the future. We have no choice."

"I always have a choice." She watched his shadowed eyes. "My fate is not decided without my decision."

"We need to move," the borg's voice broke their words.

"Yes," Julieth said, disturbed by Ivanus's certainty. If he saw his own death or theirs, would he only accept that and not try to change it?

Ivanus directed them into another passage and walked a good distance before turning and holding his hand up, then pointing to a mosaic painting on the roof a short distance above. Its faded paint was chipping and warped from time. He stepped back as Riad approached, clicking his arm compartment open and removing a mine with his fingers.

For the first time, Julieth noticed and remembered the finger missing from his cybernetic arm. I hope it does not hinder him in battle, she thought.

A rush of static burst over them as Riad rocketed the mine toward the mosaic with his cybernetic arm.

BOOM!

Julieth stumbled backwards as the blast decimated the mosaic. Debris thundered in the tunnel around them and smoke filled her lungs. She was disoriented for a moment, and then looked up, catching her footing as she saw a body clasping to the edge of the destroyed street above, dangling in the light over the opening. She squinted as a blast of electricity struck the man's body from Ivanus's gun nearby, severing his arm and sending him crashing to the debris a short distance away.

A hard force hit the back of her head, forcing it almost into the ancient street below.

"Keep low," Julieth heard Riad's instruction overhead.

He was holding her, pinning her down, but she was able to move her head and watched as a man charged their way with a drawn sword. Blood smeared his face.

Riad leapt from overtop her, beating back the attacker's sword with his metal arm and then clutching the enemy's throat, releasing the life from his body as the foe's eyes rolled in his head.

A moment later a blast came from across the cavern and Julieth witnessed the form of an attacking archer disintegrate with electricity, ash from its body wafting away like the ash of a fire in the breeze surrounding them.

"We need to move!" Riad shouted as he struck a look back at her. "Can you get us up there?"

"I'll need defense, but I think I can carry you both, at least that short distance." Julieth looked over the debris, scouring it for living attackers. She expanded her vast wings and flew over to Ivanus. "You know what to so."

He went behind her, bracing an arm over her upper body and holding the massive weapon in his other hand.

Julieth lifted up and flew to Riad, holding down her hands for him to take.

She beat her wings in full span behind her as the trio rose. The weight of the two men pulled her down, but somehow she made slow progress. As she approached eyelevel with the street she saw armed warriors watching them in fear and awe. Some fought her people in the streets, while others clenched their swords, ready to fight.

Archers volleyed arrows toward them and she quickened her wings' pulse, barely avoiding the arrows' range. She was about to call out to Ivanus, but felt the charge of the gun, watching as its blast lit up the archers, causing them to duck or flee.

"Go for the far side!" Riad called out as Ivanus ceased fire, adjusted, and then fired on the mercenary swordsmen.

Julieth looked and saw that the far side of the open crevice was unmanned. It had been cool in the tunnels, but a hot, dry wind cut across her as she beat her wings toward the area.

Men rushed their way as she reached the space.

Riad let go of her wrists, shaking the ground as he landed, and then drew a mine and thrust it into the coming onslaught.

BOOM! The enemy's bodies were shredded in the blast.

As Ivanus dropped from her back, she pumped her wings and soared into the sky. The city dropped away, revealing two major pockets of fighting, both nearby, and chaos around where they had opened the hole.

Julieth took a breath, taking a moment high above the fighting to calm her nerves, and then realized she didn't have that moment she had just taken, to spare. Arrows shot toward her from below and then fled down toward the earth once more, completely out of range. She reached into her quiver and pulled out a fire-powder tipped arrow, quickly pulling it back in her bowstring and firing it into the enemy below. She watched as bodies of the enemy were decimated in the blast.

Something was happening below. Her people were driving back a group of mercenaries that had pressed deeper into the city. The mercenaries, the size of minute creatures below, were falling quickly. Riad, Ivanus and I are not there, she thought. We have a real chance to defeat them.

Electric light struck through the fighting below as Ivanus utilized the weapon they had taken from Riad.

Julieth needed to return to their side. Her people might recognize her, but would not know Ivanus and would see Riad as the enemy. She drew an arrow as she dove, firing it into the skull of an attacker charging for Riad, as she landed near him on the street, blood webbing and pooling in the cobble's crevices.

"That way!" she shouted, holding an arm out toward where she had seen her people making progress. Julieth fired more arrows into the enemy before them as Riad took them on with his bare hands.

Swords glanced off Riad's cybernetic limbs as if they had never touched him, and he thrust his metallic half forward first, using it as both weapon and shield.

Sweat flung off Julieth's body as she moved, readjusting quickly to fire her arrows. There were few fire-powder tipped arrows left and she tried saving them until there was an absolute need. Two mercenaries found their way past Riad and she missed the one she fired at with her arrow. With barely a thought she pivoted and thrust her wings against them, knocking both attackers to the street. While pivoting around again she struck one man's chest with a shot. He cried out in agony as she struck another arrow into the second felled mercenary's neck, blood spurting from the wound.

Julieth breathed heavily, watching as Riad made progress. She kneeled down over the body of the man whose neck she had pierced. She pulled the arrow from it, realized it was unusable now and thrust it aside. My quiver will be empty soon, she realized. I need another weapon. Julieth reached down and hefted the mercenary's sword. It was dull and dented, but it would have to do.

An electric charge blasted past her as she stood, colliding with the enemy force Riad confronted. Ivanus looked worn as he joined her side and the two pressed on. Julieth's bow was now braced over her shoulder as she held the sword firmly before her.

"What do you see in our future now?" she asked Ivanus as they moved.

"There is too much going on, I can't focus," he replied.

She could see her people fighting from the other side of the enemy. This segment of the attacking force was pinned.

With a beat of her wings she burst up above the fighting, close enough for the people of Kaskal to make out her face. "Do not attack the borg!" she shouted below as the sound of steel meeting steel rang through the air. "The man with the electricity weapon is with us as well!" At first she was unsure she was heard, but soon some of her people in the back of the fighting looked up to her in recognition, calling out to their fellow defenders with orders. A friend of her father's, when her father had lived, caught her eyes before charging into battle below.

She angled her wings, soaring down near the man and holding her sword high while landing and charging into the enemy.

Clang! Her sword met a mercenary's, energy reverberating through the muscles of her arms and shoulders as she parried and struck again. There was dark determination in her opponent's eyes.

Clang! Their swords clashed again. Clang! Clang!

"Fall back!" the words came from somewhere close to her, on her side of the fighting. Riad and Ivanus are doing too good a job, she suddenly realized. They are driving the enemy against us, forcing us deeper into the city.

Clang! Clang! She moved back, and then shuddered in horror as she watched the man she had recognized be struck in the waist by a sword and fall to the ground, crying out in pain.

An electric glow illuminated the mercenary force as Ivanus's gun devoured the enemy and sent a static charge across the fighting.

Now, Julieth thought, seeing her chance and hammering her sword against her attackers. Clang! Clang! Their swords battled, before her blade ripped into the man's torso, ripping flesh and splaying blood. She let loose the sword's hilt as it drove into the man's body, and then with one swift movement pulled her bow over her arm with one hand and a fire-powder tipped arrow from her quill with another. She pulled the arrow back and struck it into the fighting.

BOOM! The remaining mercenaries before her were decimated by the blast.

Riad came through their crumpled bodies, reaching down with his strong arms and choking a man before removing a mine from his arm and lobbing it into another group of the enemy.

BOOM! A second major blast sent limbs flying. Men who knew they were outnumbered and doomed screamed above the sound of clashing swords.

Julieth watched as Riad brought his cybernetic hand down to his metallic leg, gripping it and removing a dagger from what had appeared before to be part of the leg's form.

What remained was a slaughter, with their enemy easily overrun by Kaskal's force and the abilities of Riad, Ivanus and Julieth.

As the fighting neared its end, Julieth stood on the street staring at the bodies of her people and the enemy. A heavy heat filled her lungs as a haze curled over her. It was not horror that consumed her. She had seen far too much death in her life for that. She was in awe of the power coursing through her veins, and of the fact that she was still alive.

*About the Author*

Scott J. Toney, founder of Breakwater Harbor Books, lives in Virginia with his wife and children. His first book, The Ark of Humanity, is a what-if mer novel based on the story of Noah and the flood. As an author, Toney has become a bard of many genres, from Fantasy and Sci-Fi, to Romantic Suspense, Historical and Religious Fiction.

NovaFall is a short work taken from the beginning of Toney's novel, Bishop: Book I of the NovaForge Trilogy, to be released March, 2014. Toney holds degrees in Journalism and Public Relations and marks his greatest achievement as his family.

Cybilla

by MINDY HAIG

I:

"Will you be here in the morning?"

"You know I won't. I can't."

I threw my arm across my eyes, partly to hide the disappointment I knew was visible upon my face, partly to avoid looking at her with the desperation I knew she could see. "Are you ever going to tell me or should I pretend this is all still just a dream."

"Oren, what you want is not possible."

"You told me once that it had been done."

"One time, Oren!" she said, exasperated. "One time in all the history of man has it been done! Once! Do you not understand that you ask the impossible?"

"One man completed the task, therefore it is not impossible," I answered stubbornly.

"You frustrate me so!"

"Who was he?" I asked, rolling to my side to face her. I was angry, more hurt than angry really, but enough so that I could overlook the beauty, the simple perfection beside me. I did not gaze into her eyes. I did not long to kiss her mouth. I just wanted my answer, because without it, I could never keep her.

"I don't know who he was," she whispered as she ran her delicate fingers over the rough stubble on my cheek. "I don't even know if he was real or if that is just a romantic tale we tell."

"Now you're just saying that," I said rolling away from her and off my bed. "If you don't love me, then go and don't come back, but don't lie to me." I reached for my guitar where it stood beside the window. I sat on the bed with my back to her and let my fingers play upon the strings. I knew she could not resist the music, and yet, I didn't play for her. I played because it was the only thing that soothed the hurt inside me.

She slid close behind me, rested her chin on my shoulder and pressed her cheek to my face. It was a long moment that the music filled the space around us before she spoke. "Oren, you know that I love you. You know that it's more than that. You are the only man who has ever loved only me. I do not know the place or the task, I only know that once you start this quest, once you pledge your intention, I will have to leave you. And I fear beyond all else that I will never see you again."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because none have ever returned to me."

I set the guitar down and pulled her to me on my bed. "How many have tried?"

"Three."

"What became of them?"

"They died," she whispered.

"Was Quentin Gallagher one of them?"

She shook her head. "Quentin couldn't do it. He wanted to, he wanted it so badly he vowed his intention. But he was only a man of words, Oren. He would never be able to find the gateway. His vow meant my departure and he went mad with grief. He wrote haunting stories about his loss, he made his fortune, but I don't think that success brought him any joy," she sighed. "I didn't love him the way I love you. Leaving him was not..."

"It's a gateway."

She sighed. "You hear only the things you want to hear, Oren."

"I hear everything you say. I know the risk. But I am willing to die for the chance to live a real life with you, and if I can't have that, if I'm not man enough for the task, I might as well be dead anyway."

She sighed. "Do not say the words tonight, Oren. Give me tonight to hold you in my arms."

"If you aren't here when the sun comes through my window, I will shout my intention to all the world."

"Kiss me goodbye then, My Love."

"No. My kiss is a promise that I will bring you back."
II:

She was not there when I awoke, nor did I expect her to be, but that never stopped me from asking. I reached over and took the picture frame from my bedside table. I traced the delicate lines of her face with my finger and imagined sweeping her dark hair from her brow. I lay back on my pillow and remembered the very first time she appeared in my dreams. I was only a boy of fifteen, but I thought I was a man. My only love until that time had been music, but I suppose that is the reason this was possible at all.

. . .

Fate works in its own unique way. For me it was a story that I had to read for an English class. It was a short piece in rather large volume of works by a man named Quentin Gallagher. Gallagher had a knack for giving his stories very potent one word names; names that invoked a specific feeling. This particular one was called Dismantled. It was a dark and frantic tale of a painter who'd lost his vision and could not find satisfaction in his work. His restless discontent drove him mad. Needless to say, I was not interested in that story at all. In fact, as a musician, it really sort of irked me. Perhaps it was because some small part of me acknowledged how easily a person with such a gift could find himself in that situation, more likely it was because I was a pompous boy and I thought that could never happen to someone who was truly talented. Anyway, I read it because I had to, and scoffed at his hardship. I was glad to reach the ending.

Until I glanced at the title on the next page.

Ardor.

As I said, I was a bit cocky, arrogant maybe. I considered myself something of a wordsmith. I wrote my own lyrics, so I was poetic in a sense. But the word just jumped out at me with all its implications: fire, fervor, passion.

'If only you could have seen her.'

That single sentence seemed to call out to me. I read. I finished the story and sat dazed with desire for a woman I couldn't even accurately describe. The writer captured me in his raw need for this woman he could not have.

I immediately read it again. I drank in every word. I felt every pain from a heartbreak that had to have been real, but likely happened nearly a hundred years before I was born. It did not dawn on me at the time how remarkable it was that the preceding story, which was most assuredly born of this same loss, kept me stubbornly detached, while this tale threatened to suffocate me in emotions my youth did not own.

His final words still echo in my mind: 'I made a vow that haunts me. My muse gone to the place I cannot follow.'

I sat looking at the ending for a long time. Then I did what I always did when my mind needed clearing; I pulled my guitar across my lap and I played the music his story inspired.

I did not know that sleep had taken me, because when the dream came, I still sat on the floor playing the tune my heart sang. It should have been obvious, I mean, again, I was a fifteen-year-old boy. I'd never had a girlfriend and yet there she lay, on her stomach across my bed. Her chin rested in her palm, her face was just beside mine and her soft breath tickled my ear. She reached out and stroked my hair and I leaned into her touch as though I'd been expecting it.

At last I damped my strings and turned to face her.

"That was lovely, Oren Gale," she said.

I sat mute. Dark hair shimmered as though each strand had been coated with the evening sky and the stars woke with each tiny movement. It framed a perfect face, a gentle oval with just a slight point to her chin. Long lashes curled away from irises like the ocean on a picture postcard and she smiled the pearl white of moonlight as I hungrily devoured each image my mind made of her.

"Did you like the story?" she asked.

In that moment my dazzled brain tried frantically to make some connection to this girl that still lay upon my bed. Surely I must have known her from school, how else could she have known about the assignment? "No." I admitted. "I didn't like it at all. The painter just gave up on his work, on himself, on all he was..."

She began to laugh a little as she sat up and criss-crossed her legs beneath her. "Not that story, My Love, the other one."

I was looking up at her from my seat on the floor or perhaps I was kneeling in reverence, but she was otherworldly. "How did you know about that? Who are you?"

"It's getting late. I have to go."

"Go? You just got here. Wait, how did you get here? Why are you here?"

She smiled. "You called me, Oren."

I shook my head in denial, but she pointed at my guitar and said; 'the music has its own voice.'

She slid to the end of the bed, leaned forward and kissed me.

There has never been another woman.
III:

I could have kept my mouth shut and hoped for another night, but it's possible that the intention of my heart was all the declaration I needed to make. Still, it had been thirteen years since that first kiss on the night the music called my muse to me. I'd found my success, I had all the worldly goods I could ever need, but I could not love anyone but her. So the day had come that I had to face fate or death or whatever it was that kept her from me. I had to find the gateway.

I began my quest.

. . .

She came to me only in dreams for a number of years. Those dreams were too few and too far between. There were times I was desperate for even a glimpse of her. I read that story so many times it seemed that I had written it. Certainly I was living it. If reading didn't call her to me, I played the music I wrote that first night. But when she came to my dream and we touched, that was all that mattered.

The strangest part is that in all that time, I didn't even know her name. It was not because I neglected to ask, but she was very skilled at deflecting my questions and occupying the small time we had with more urgent pursuits. Morning would come and I would awake both satisfied and frustrated. And still I longed for more of those nights.

Then came a day when a door opened.

I was touring. My music gave me the opportunity to see the world and temporarily escape the longing and loneliness. But it was on this particular trip that I heard there was to be an auction. The descendants of Quentin Gallagher were selling off the author's possessions, including his original manuscripts.

I decided right then and there that I would pay all I had to own Ardor.

The story was somehow connected to my muse, and perhaps there was some secret in its original pages that would help me find her.

I went to the auction house on the scheduled day. For a man who'd made a good fortune writing, his possessions were few. I browsed the tables eagerly looking for that one thing I needed. I did not want to seem overly eager lest my enthusiasm cause others to be interested. I made note of the item and moved about the room.

A young woman stood frowning near the door. She was younger than I was by a perhaps a handful of years, but we seemed to be the youngest people present. "Did you find what you were looking for?" she asked me as I stood casually watching the prospective bidders mill around the room.

"Yes," I answered as I stood beside her.

She looked up at me and gasped. "Are you Oren Gale?" she whispered, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Yes, I am."

"I'm a huge fan! Wow, I never would have expected someone famous to come view this old stuff."

"Really? I mean, I wouldn't say I was famous, but I would have expected producers and actors to be snapping this stuff up like candy."

"Why? From everything I know about my great-uncle, he was a lonely, bitter old man. He never married. He didn't have any children. He left all of this to my grandfather to deal with. He was a recluse and all his stories are sort of dark and depressing."

"I'm sure he inspired many people in his day."

"Well if they made a movie of one of his stories, I probably wouldn't go see it!"

I laughed. "Maybe you just think that because your related to..." All the while we were chatting, I had been standing beside her watching the crowd, but at that moment I turned to face this great-great niece of Gallagher, and there behind her was a table of personal effects: a silver pocket watch, an elaborately engraved flask, a sailor's compass, a large water pitcher, half-a-dozen pairs of cufflinks, ornate quills and ink jars, a pan flute, and an ornate picture frame that was home to the one who owned my heart. "What are these things?" I asked as casually as I could manage the words.

"The only things he felt a need to keep. There were some other jewels that belonged to his mother, but my father wanted to keep them."

"The watch is nice."

"Who carries a pocket watch? Seriously!" she laughed.

"What about the picture?"

She leaned into me just a bit and whispered, "I'm pretty sure she came with the frame."

It wasn't long before the auction started. Ardor was quite a ways down the list, so I sat and pondered the personal items the man saw fit to treasure. The photo was obvious, well to me anyway. My muse was his muse as well. Clearly that was her connection to the story, it was written about her. But something was different. For me she was just a dream and somehow he'd managed to get a picture of her. What did the other objects mean? Why were they important to him? I desperately needed to know the secrets of a man long gone from this world.

At last the time came. The first bids were in line with my expectations, and then I made my move. There was one other battling me for the prize, but at last he shook his head and crossed it off his program. I was victorious, but I wanted the other pieces.

I came away with the manuscript, the frame, the watch, the flask and the flute.

I'd never played a flute.

I could learn.

Still, I returned to my room and took the frame from the parcel. I held it my own hands for the very first time. My fingers traced the perfect lines of her face and imagined sweeping her dark hair gently across her forehead as I had done a hundred times in my dreams. I had this overwhelming notion that she was somehow suffocating behind that glass, that I had to save her. My hands began to shake. Every nerve in my body seemed to hum like the guitar strings too tightly wound. I pried the back away and gently let the picture fall to my lap as I laid her glass house aside. It was made in sepia, but I still saw her in color.

The print was old, it seemed more like canvas than modern paper, but to my touch it was as soft as skin. Perhaps my senses were over tuned as this was the first time I was touching her likeness in my waking day. I turned it over; my mind seemed to think the rear of the image would be there, that I would see the stars in her hair as they spread across her shoulders and swayed into the small of her back. But while my imagination was disappointed, my curiosity was engaged. There in the scrolling print that decorated the manuscript was: Piazza Santa Maria, Trastevere August, 1866.

And then the bit of information I longed for these many years: her name: Cybilla.

I whispered it over and over in my mind.

Then I called it out for the world to hear.
IV:

Like Gallagher, I kept only those things which it would hurt me to lose. I set out upon my quest carrying those prizes I won from the auction, my grandmother's wedding ring which I hoped to put on her finger if I found success, three Byzantine gold coins and my guitar. I knew in my heart that if I expected to take something from the Gods, I would have to give up all I treasured. Still, there was no price I would not pay. As I told her, I would prefer to give my life than to be found unworthy. So I packed my treasures in a simple backpack. I locked my door, wondering if I would ever return. I walked to the center of the street and I sang out my intention for all the world to hear.

. . .

I read the manuscript as it was written by the man who'd lost all he lived for. The power of every word was punctuated by the visible tension in the letters, as though the memories caused him to squeeze the quill between his fingers or his heart simply pounded so hard it shook the quill in his hand. As always, I came to that bitter ending where his vow cost him something he was not willing to pay. But then, beyond his ending, he gave me a gift. Scraps of research he'd done as he tried to muster the courage to possess Cybilla.

As I said, I was touring at the time I bought the manuscript. Concerts were the routine, and I found myself awake through most of my nights and sleeping for a good portion of the daylight hours. Life seemed just one step behind normal, and I was struggling to assimilate.

The music poured from my fingers, my heart, and my mouth as I stood upon the stage for all the world to hear. It was that night I saw her in the flesh for the first time. She stood just beyond what the audience could see of the stage. I was changing guitars for the upcoming song and as I turned I saw her there watching. It took every bit of my will to remain on stage. Even my soul wanted to run to her, take her in my arms and beg her to stay. I pointed at her. I whispered her name. She should have been too far away to hear me, but she smiled and nodded. Music continued to come forth, but I don't remember any of it. My eyes kept sliding back to the place she stood. She seemed to be absorbing the notes as they swirled around her. She and the music were one in the same, but perhaps that is the nature of the muse.

Alas, the show ended, the bows were made and she was gone.

No one who had been on that stage crew had any memory of seeing my beautiful ghost.

I stayed long after the place was empty and the instruments were packed away. Hoping. I knew I could go back to my rooms and she might visit my dreams. But that wasn't enough. Cybilla was out in the real world. I needed to see here there. I walked the empty streets in the hour when the first rays of daylight broke through the gate of darkness. I flipped a coin into the water as I passed the fountain but I made no wish, I just continued to walk.

There was a splash behind me; water hit my back and I spun.

"You didn't make a wish."

There she sat on the edge of the basin running her fingers through the water. "I have only one desire. Is it madness to wish for something that is only a dream?" I asked as I stood before her, gazing down into eyes like the sea.

"Perhaps."

"Are you only a dream, Cybilla? Am I dreaming this or are you here in the flesh?"

"I am here, Oren. But just because you aren't asleep does not mean it's not a dream."

"Why are you here?"

"You called my name. You called me into the world of men. But I can't stay."

"You can come if I call for you, but you can't stay with me?"

She nodded. She rose from her seat and ran her hand over my cheek. "It is different touching you in the flesh, feeling the warmth."

I swept my fingers through the dark hair at her forehead, then I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her. All the times she'd come to me, I could feel the passion, but my dreams lacked the whole of the sensory pleasures. Here, as the day slowly broke over us, I could taste the honey sweetness of her mouth. I could smell the freshness of her skin. There was heat where her body pressed against mine that was more than just proximity, it was destiny.

Cybilla's arms were tight around me as she whispered in my ear, "do you know what I am, Oren?"

"I do, but I want to hear you tell me."

"I'm a muse, My Love," she said dropping her eyes and releasing me from her arms.

I took her hand and we walked. "Do you love me, Cybilla?"

"More than I have loved anything in this world."

"But I have asked for your name for so long. If calling your name could bring you to me, why would you never tell me?"

"Look at me, Oren, really look at me. What do you see?"

"I see the only woman I have ever loved."

"Yes, I know that, but you see a woman. This is what I will always look like, what I have always looked like. I could not come to you as the boy you were, like this. In a dream, I can be whatever I wish to be. I could grow up alongside you. But then it had been so long I did not know how to tell you without causing one of us pain."

"Pain?"

"When I told you that you could call me to this world, but I could not stay, did you ache?"

"Yes."

"If I told you that and you did not call, I would ache. When I hear your music I long for you. When you read the story and feel what it meant, I feel your longing, your passion. I want only you, Oren. If you denied me..."

"I could never deny you," I said as I looked up at the orange disc broaching the horizon.

And just like that she was gone.
V:

My journey began with the fountain.

It is said in Rome that if you throw a coin into a fountain you are assured a return trip. I hoped there was some truth in that legend. Honestly, I had no idea what was going to happen. Part of me wished I could just throw my coin and wish Cybilla would be mine. Of course, if it were that easy there would never have been the preceding failures that made her mine.

. . .

I stood at the fountain in Piazza Santa Maria looking into the water for a long time. The sky was still dark and I needed to wait until the gate between night and day was opened, that was when reality and mystery merged. I set my backpack down and fished one of the coins from the pocket. I sat absently flipping it between my fingers as a small bubbling sound came from the water and the small distraction drew my attention to the first glimmer of light to the east. The coin was tight in my hand as I rose, then I pressed it to my lips and asked the Nymph of the Eternal Water to come to me as I tossed it toward the fountain.

A small hand reached from beneath the surface and snatched the coin before it hit the water.

There was a light giggle.

I looked over the edge and two delicate faces peered back at me.

The first sprang boldly from the water. "That is an old trinket you've given, your request must be great," she said holding the coin in her long-fingered hand.

The second slid to sitting on the edge of the basin as the first rays of sunshine caught her golden hair.

"I've declared my intention to claim my muse."

"That is folly!" the one on the wall laughed.

"Quiet, Kira!" the other gasped. "Do not discourage him, his heart is pure." She looked at me then and asked, "why have you come to this place?"

"The one I seek sat upon this basin many years ago in this time. I thought this spring might be a gateway."

"He is clever, Dia" the one called Kira said.

"You seek Cybilla." Dia reached up and placed her hand upon my chest. She smiled at me. "Yes, this place is a gateway, it is not the one you seek."

"Can you tell me where I must go?" I asked.

"What do you offer in return?" Kira asked.

"He has already paid a great price, he owes nothing more for our help."

"But you have got a prize and I have nothing!" Kira sulked. She stood and spoke to me directly. "Would you give me your heart?"

I dropped to my knee before her. "My Lady, I cannot. My heart is already given and that is why I am on this quest. I would give anything else you ask of me."

"There is a jewel you carry..."

"Kira!" Dia exclaimed again.

I intended to give the ring to Cybilla, but without the goodwill of the Nymphs, I might never reach her so I dug the ring from my bag and held it out to her.

Kira laughed with delight as she slid it onto her long finger, held her hand up in the air and twirled around. "The gate you seek is hard to find, most do not have the courage to look where you must look. You must find the God of Gates and Doors. He must favor the beginning of your journey. Find him on the first of March, that day is a portal itself."

The sun had completely crested the horizon, so I knew my time was growing short.

"Singer of love songs, would you play for us before you go?" Kira asked as she sat upon the edge of the fountain once again and slid gracefully into the water.

I took the flute from my bag, sat upon the ledge and played the only song I'd learned, the only music my heart wished to make. Lovely Nymphs danced in the cool waters as the sun burst forth and the gateway to night closed. But as Kira slid beneath the surface and back to the sacred spring, Dia pushed herself up to the edge of the basin and spoke softly to me. "You paid dearly, Oren Gale, so I will give you a gift. You seek the Arch of Janus. Find him on the first of March at the time you came here today." She kissed my cheek. "May the waters always be your friend," she whispered.

"How did you know my name?"

She laughed as she slid back to the water. "All the worlds know your name."

And she was gone.
VI:

I was impatient, but I could not let that show. Ten days was a long time to wait when one has started out on a journey. But I had waited so many years already that I could not let restlessness jeopardize my mission. I wandered about the city as I squandered my days away and at night I tried to learn what would await me at the Arch.

. . .

I made my way in the dark. I'd already traveled the road a number of times just to be certain I knew the way, but moving in the darkness was different, more sinister. There was a foreboding that I hadn't felt as I approached the fountain, but I also hadn't gone to the fountain thinking I would meet a God. Nerves were getting the best of me so I sat, took my guitar from its case and lost myself to the sound of the chords and the feel of the vibration beneath my fingers.

When at last I damped the strings an older gentleman stood leaning against the uneven reliefs on the wall. He pulled a long drag on the thin cigarette between his fingers, flicked it away then clapped.

"Nice piece," he said gruffly, "you write it?"

"Yes, Sir, I did."

He nodded. "That why you're standing at this place on the day when the world shifts?"

"Yes. I came to find Janus, the God of Gates and Doors."

"Ah, is that what they called me? I can hardly keep my designations straight these days," he chuckled wryly. "So what kind of gate are you looking for, Son? City gate? The garden variety? The kind that keep kids out of your business? Or is it a door? Front door. Back door. Just don't do this ridiculous thing here when you make a arched door," he said waving his hand in the air above his head. "You know how hard it is to make a door to fit an arch?" he huffed. "Well, come along, we can talk about what you need when the sun greets us on the other side."

He turned to walk away through the arch, but he was still looking at me, only with different eyes. "What do you ask as payment?" I asked him.

This second face smiled kindly. "I ask for nothing," this softer, musical voice answered. "The daughters of the water took plenty, Oren Gale. Ask me your questions before the sun's face is full in the sky and I will answer what I can."

"I seek a gateway. I have declared my intention to claim my muse, but I do not know how to find the place of judgment."

"I see. There have been others seeking what you seek. Only one that I know of has ever had the courage to endure. He sought that place as well. There are many gates, Son. I will tell you as I told him, there is not simply one through which the Mother will come. You must understand exactly what you are asking and know exactly what outcome would satisfy your quest. If you do not hold the answers firmly in your heart you have already failed."

"I know what it is I want, My Lord. I want Cybilla. I want to claim her for my own and bring her back into this mortal world with me. There is no task I will not attempt to that end."

"Then you are stronger than most men."

"Why do say that?"

He reached out and placed his hand on my chest. "Your heart is greater than your pride. You must seek Carmenta. You must hear the oracle from the mouth of the sibyl. The voice of the Goddess will tell you what to do." He looked out to the east. "The great flame of the heavens is nearly above the horizon, if you have other questions, ask quickly."

"Why was this date important?"

"Ah, if you wish to go to war, you must wait until the military season is open," he smiled, then he began to turn away, back toward the arch.

"Wait, the other man, did he find the gate? Was he worthy? Did he get his muse?"

"He did not fail, but whether he got what he wanted only he can say. In the end, he was offered a choice and he made his decision."

Janus started back through the arch and the eyes that first noticed me looked upon me again as I followed him through. He lit his thin cigarette and took a long slow drag as I knelt and rummaged through my bag. I stayed upon my knees as I extended my offering to him.

"What's this then, Son?"

"It is the door to time."

He flicked open the cover and looked at the watch. He chuckled wryly. "Well done, Oren Gale! I accept."

It was that moment the sun's bright morning rays caught the pale stone briefly blinding me where I knelt. I blinked the brightness from my eyes and sought Janus again, but he was not to be found.
VII:

Cybilla came to my shows many, many times in the four years after I called her name. It was probably the music that drew her more than anything, though she denied that. We would walk in the moonlight. We did not hide away, but I was never completely sure if I was the only one who saw her. Beauty such as she possessed should have caused others to stop in their tracks, mouths agape and yet their eyes seemed to slide past her. Always she wanted to touch me, to feel that warmth between us and I imagined that the life she knew must be cold if she needed my touch as she did. But my life was cold when she was not in it so perhaps we just needed each other.

Never did a night pass that I did not profess my love for her, but as the years went by hearing the words from her became a rarity. I asked her why she stopped saying the words and she admitted through her tears that she thought the time was coming when I would want to forget her. She thought I would want a wife and family, but I told her I could only want those things if I could have them with her.

It was then she told me that one man had claimed his muse.

And she stubbornly refused to ever speak of it again.

. . .

So how does a man find an Oracle? There was a time in history when such a quest was common and finding such a place was only as difficult as listening to the tales of the heroes. Modern day heroes were much harder to find, so it was a play that set me on my path. The words of the bards and thespians tend to be rooted in history and then wrapped in mythology and tied with a pretty ribbon of fiction, but it was the root I was looking for.

I traveled south. There is a lake made in the crater of a volcano, surrounded by a fertile grove. Lago d'Averno, a doorway to the center of the world enclosed by the Garden of Eden. I spent the night camped upon the bank. Though it was cold on my journey, this secluded place was warm and sleep took me easily. I dreamt of a woman walking along the banks. Her hair was long and dark but elaborately braided and the long twist of it hung down her back. She wore a white dress that shimmered like the moonlight above and only just showed her bare feet. She turned toward me just a fraction showing her profile and my mind called out for Cybilla.

I woke with a start. It had been more than a month since my journey began and I ached for her though I knew she would not return to me. The darkness was still thick in the sky, but I needed comfort. I took the flute from my bag and played as softly as the wind. Light laughing came form the direction of the water and I could see the Nymphs frolic out under the setting moon. But the Lady I sought was not in sight. Again I lay my head upon the ground, I did not think rest would find me again, but it must have.

There came a small push at my shoulder. "You must wake now, Oren Gale, the Lady has come to the lake!" she whispered urgently.

I opened my eyes to see Dia kneeling beside me. "You help me even here?"

"I have felt your heart, and you have given us music," she answered, delicately stroking the flute.

"You may have it, take it as my thanks to you. I will hope the next man who plays it will have only you in his heart."

She lifted it and pressed it tight to her. "Do you think there is such a man out there? Do you think there is a man like you who would call for me?"

I reached out and stroked her cheek. "If I live to make a life beyond this journey, I will write your name into song. I will tell the one who hears it what he must do."

"You must see the Lady now. Your words are a gift beyond any price I could dream of asking." She pressed her fingers to her lips and blew her kiss to me as she disappeared into the dark water.

And there in the distance, with the sun's first rays behind her was the Lady Carmenta, the voice of the Goddess.

I approached her slowly. So like Cybilla was she that tears leaked from my eyes as they looked upon her.

"I have heard your name, Oren Gale. All the world beyond seems to be speaking of you."

"How can this be?" I asked. "How can you be so alike that my eyes are fooled but my heart is not?"

She turned and stepped close to me. She took my face into her hands and looked deep into my eyes, so deep she seemed to look directly into my memories. Then she slid her hand down and pressed it to my heart. Words my mind could not seem to translate whispered within me until the moment she pulled away. But she looked away out toward the water and brushed heavy tears from her eyes.

"It is my daughter you seek. I, Carmenta, wife of Mercury, mother of Evander, founder of the letters of Roma, bore just one daughter. The greatest love of my heart. Oh, but how could she not be what she is, given her lineage? I am speaker of the oracle, her father, carrier of dreams, it was clear from the moment she breathed with life that she was a muse," the Lady sniffed. "And I hid her. I hid my darling child beneath my skirts so the Mother might overlook what was plain to see. I kept her close to me at all times always hoping she might escape that life of torment where love can never be fulfilled."

"My Lady, I did not know."

"You could not know, Oren Gale. For I was punished harshly. The Oracle was one day meant for me and the Mother claimed my beloved and chastised my desire to keep her for my own. Cybilla was cleansed in the pure spring where her memory was washed away and my love long forgotten. While my son went on to fame and power, even in mortality, my only daughter has been made to live an eternal half-life, and I have not seen her face since the day she was torn from my own arms."

I knew what I must offer her. My heart would be heavy with loss, but she bore that loss as well. I took the picture from my bag carefully. I stroked the lines of her face and brushed the hair from her brow one last time and then I made my offer to the Sibyl. "This is she, My Lady. This is Cybilla."

Carmenta took the picture in her hands, tears of loss and joy and thanks fell all at once as she looked upon the face we both treasured. "She is beautiful."

"As beautiful as the one who bore her."

She looked at me and then into me it seemed. Some judgment was made, and she said: "Give me silence and I shall listen to the words of the Goddess and tell you plainly what they mean."

Carmenta closed her eyes and swayed a bit in the gentle breeze that danced through the early hour. The sun was peering over the rim of the crater and I knew my time must be getting short. But a man cannot rush the words of a Goddess, so I breathed deeply, pushing away the anxiousness.

At last she walked away from me, but she returned quickly carrying a small basin. "Kneel, Oren Gale," she commanded as she dipped the basin into the dark water. "You must find the one who has made his way through the gate. A man of Genoese blood, a troubadour, who left behind a life of plenty to go where the chords live longer than any other place in this world." She poured the water over my head and ran her gentle fingers through my wet hair. "I give you the protection of the lake, for the gift you have given me is far greater than the words I have to offer in return. Fill your flask here and carry the fertile water with you. Drink only sparingly, if your need is great, as the water in this place is the blood of the earth, that from which all life sprung.

"My Lady, how do I find a man who has gone beyond this temporal world?"

"The same way you have found each of us. You must find his gate."

She bid me to stand and again she ran her hand over my cheek and down to my heart. Words sprang to my mind; a memory drawn back so vividly that I could see every detail as I heard the brief words:

"Do you love me, Cybilla?"

"More than I have loved anything in this world."

Carmenta took her hand away slowly, the melancholy upon her face was clear. "Love her with all you are, Oren Gale."

"I have loved her that much since the moment she first came to my dream. I feel the pain of every day she is not with me."

"Sweet Mercury, please grant him the peace of Morpheus' dream once more, here in this sacred place!" she called out to the sky, her arms spread wide in the face of the morning sun. Then she kissed my forehead.

I must have crumpled to the ground. Sleep took me instantly, but whether it was Carmenta's kiss or fleet Mercury sending me to my dream I did not know. I relived that first night; the night Cybilla lay across my bed. The night I first leaned into her touch. The night she first called me 'My Love'. I could still hear the echo of the music in my mind.

The sun was already red with the waning of day when at last I woke. For a moment I feared that loss of time. Had it just been one day or had a slept a lifetime in this sacred place? But the answer did not matter because which ever it was, it was the will of the Goddess. And my journey still awaited me. I filled my flask as Carmenta instructed, I whispered my thanks and I walked on.
VIII:

I found a place to stay and rest that night. But as I lay in bed I tossed and turned. For the first time, I felt the vile fear of failure. I wondered at the cruelty of this Mother Goddess who would take a child from her mother's arms and wash away the love that was. What chance had the love of a mortal man's heart against the will of such a goddess? I had to quash those thoughts immediately so they would not be branded on my heart. I told myself that the power of love was the greatest force in all of creation. My love was for Cybilla alone and nothing was going to discourage me from this task.

. . .

It was many weeks of research before I found my answer. I think it was the name that tricked me the most.

The Oracle said I needed to find a man of Genoese blood, and a place where chords lived. I was expecting an amphitheater or at least a theater of some sort. I thought this task might even take me into Greece as theater was so important to that culture. My research found ninety-six amphitheaters in Italy alone, and that was not the entirety of the list of theaters built by the Roman Empire. There were an additional eighty Greek theaters significant enough to warrant a look. I cross referenced them with fountains and sacred springs, whittling my list. I researched renowned troubadours and tried to place them at the theaters that made my list. There was failure after failure. But in researching troubadours, one name kept coming back to my papers: Folquet de Marselha. I pushed him aside. He was quite obviously a man of Marseille, France, but his popularity as a singer of love songs kept pushing him back into my view. At last frustration got the better of me. I needed a break from my notes and the noise in my mind so I looked up this Frenchman just to see what made him so popular.

Imagine my surprise when the very first bit of information I found was that he was the son of a Genoese merchant. I probably should have known by the Oracle's use of the word troubadour that the one I sought was French, after all she did not say rhapsodist or virtuoso. Yes, certainly the hand of the otherworld was as work here. I began to laugh out loud as I read it, and the stern librarian reprimanded me.

I took in his short biography eagerly.

He'd lived a life of luxury and popularity. He'd had promiscuous affairs and sired sons. Until one day he abruptly gave up all he had and became a monk. In my mind, this transformation could only be the beginning of his quest for his muse. His story led to the place of his seclusion: Le Thoronet Abbey, a place so austere it was made of just three elements, earth, water and light. It was a place of absolute purity and commune with nature. It was also home to an ancient spring. So while this place may have been made in the name of a Saint, it was most assuredly a gateway to The Goddess.

And that as where I had to go.

My journey to Var en Provence was far longer than I'd expected. The days were growing quite warm as the month of May marched on. I could have traveled more quickly, maybe rented a car or sought out a train, but this seemed like a journey that needed to be made on the land, naturally, I guess. I suppose that sounds silly or superstitious, but claiming my muse seemed to have a lot to do with knowing myself and I'd never lived in any sort of hardship conditions, so knowing what I was capable of was a reward in itself.

Le Thoronet had become a museum, so the form of learning associated with the place had changed a bit. I stood at the entrance awaiting my chance to go inside. I was directed by a sign and a donation box that my charity was appreciated. I dug one of the coins from my bag again hoping the currency of the ancients would be acceptable payment.

The structures themselves were simple and unadorned and yet grand in what it must have taken to build such a place without modern machines. The stonework, the arches, the clever plumbing, were all remarkable achievements for their time. While there were many things to marvel over in this place, I had to find the fountain. Unlike every other site upon my journey, I could not access the grounds to this place in the pre-dawn hours. I could not be at the fountain as the sun rose. My plan now was to be there as the sun set. I assumed that a gate from day into night worked roughly the same way as its opposite, but it was more complicated as there was not as much privacy; the light was dimming so instead of making my meeting with the cover of darkness, I had to be wary of watching eyes and frankly, I did not know if he would come.

The fountain was a simple structure. There was an arch in the wall, a small pool and a simple pedestal basin at the center. My desire to run my fingers through the water was very strong, but I did not want to be disrespectful so I sat and waited. I took the manuscript from my bag and I read.

'If only you could have seen her.'

My heart ached. Like Gallagher, I made my vow and Cybilla was lost to me unless I could find a way to convince The Mother that I was worthy of her. Or maybe that wasn't what I needed to convince her of at all. Maybe it was a test of strength or will. Perhaps she would simply look upon me and make a judgment, but still I had to find the way to speak to the Goddess and I hoped this Abbot, this troubadour, this singer of love songs would be able to tell me how he did it.

The sun had begun its slow descent, but it moved more slowly than I had ever seen. I took my guitar from its case and let my mind get lost in the music for a while. Without realizing what I was doing, I closed my eyes and sang.

"Well, even if I had not been expecting you, hearing that song I would have known why you were here."

I startled. There beside me sat a man of middle years, perhaps fifty-five. He wore loose fitting black pants and a simple ivory shirt in the style one might imagine a poet of old wearing, with ties at the cuffs. His hair was silvered at his temples, but his eyes shone with an eternal light. So though I'd seen no pictures, I was certain this was the man I sought.

"You were expecting me?"

"Oh yes, Oren Gale. From the moment you sang your intention I knew you would seek me."

"So it is true then, Sir, that you are the one man who completed the task."

"You may call me Folquet or Foy, that is what she calls me."

"Would you share your story with me?" I asked him.

He smiled. "Would you give me yours?" he asked indicating the manuscript still sitting beside me.

I gingerly lifted the papers. It might have seemed like I did not want to give them away, and in my heart, I knew that I did not want to while I also knew that I must. But the truth was that I was afraid they would not be sufficient payment since I did not write the words. I held the story out to him and told him honestly that the work was not mine, but how I came to possess it and why it was so meaningful to me.

"You still give me something that has great meaning to you." He looked around and then back toward the fountain. "Perhaps we should not speak so close to the gate. Come, there are many things here that are quite interesting to see." He walked casually in the dim light as though he would know this place even blind.

"Do you need to go back through the gate before night falls?"

"No. I am not the same as they are, so I can walk this realm as I wish. The crossings are easiest at the dawn and dusk, but not impossible at other times. Well, at least not for me. I think, though, that I shall stay until the dawn. Did you know that a single note played in the church here can last up to three minutes? Come, you should hear it. It can be either perfection or chaos, like Heaven or the underworld," he smiled.

I followed along in his confident wake. "May I ask you something, Folquet?"

"Anything," he said. "Don't hesitate."

"Well, I know what it is that I want to know, I'm just not sure how to ask the question."

"Plainly would be best. Monks are very simple people."

"Are you immortal?"

"Have you seen accounts of my death?" he grinned.

"No, not your death, but only that your grave is near Toulouse."

He took a pitch pipe from his pocket, pushed open a large unadorned door. His eyes swept the small church and the pride showed upon his face. "Remarkable, isn't it."

Even the soft words echoed and reverberated back upon us. "Yes. The simplicity itself is art."

"Ah, pleasing to the eye for sure, but listen!" he said as he breathed into the pipe and hung a single note in the air for so long its vibration was nearly visible."

"Remarkable."

He inhaled in deeply and sang out a stanza of a canto in a dialect of French I couldn't decipher, but could feel in both the depth of the notes and the emotion. His voice was strong and deep, his words slow. We both listened to the last notes linger and fade then he motioned for me to try. While I was accustomed to singing in front of an audience and in an acoustically sound studio, nothing could have prepared me for the sound of my own voice in this place of God. My song for Cybilla was alive and every bit of me wished she could hear it.

At last the sound died away and we left that place in its sacred silence.

"I am, as you said, immortal, Oren Gale," he started. "You know what I miss the most? The bread. Every morning the sun rose and the aroma of the hearth bread greeted me. That's the thing I miss."

We entered a small room that had clearly been made into some sort of employee lounge for the people who took care of the museum.

"I was not like you. I would not say I was good man. I lived a luxurious youth, my father was a wealthy man and I was a privileged son. I traveled and sang, and sometimes my romantic words landed me in the beds of ladies above my station, occasionally they were married. Then one day I saw a painting in a Lord's house of a woman so beautiful I felt I had to write about her. Many days I sat in seclusion in a small grove practicing the lyrics, the cadences, the pitches. Until the day I thought I had it perfected. The sun was setting and the sky burned with clouds streaked like flames, but I closed my eyes and sang. I felt every word in my heart, and though I had been a singer of cantatas amorosos for many years, none had such impact on me. I opened my eyes and there she was."

"Your muse."

"No. My Goddess. I devoted myself to her. Like you, I knew I would have to sacrifice things I held dear, but it was more than that, I had to understand her world. I had to understand her place in it. I had to be one with nature. This place gave me that chance. But you see, I couldn't bring her into this world. She could never live a mortal life. So when the gate opened..."

"She brought you to her," I finished. "What was your task?"

"My task was simply knowing with all my heart what I wanted. But then I had to be worthy of her, I had to cleanse myself of my past life and I had to serve the Earth, serve mankind in someway. For me it was a penance," he said, reaching out and putting his hand over my heart. "I don't think it will be the same for you. You already know with conviction what it is you want and that has made your journey quite short. What remains is finding your gate."

"Do you know where the gate is?" I asked him eagerly.

Folquet sighed. "I know where my gate is, Oren. I can tell you where you need to go from here, and when you should arrive. But your gate is yours alone to find. Perhaps you should rest a while. I will wake you before I leave and you can ask me your final questions."

"May I ask you one more thing before I sleep? What was it like when your gate opened?"

"It was like the sun burst forth and enveloped me. It was astounding!"

It seemed like just moments before there was a nudging at my shoulder and Folquet's deep voice in my ear. "The dawn is nearly here, Oren. You need to go to the place where purity and virtue were prized and the sacred fire burned perpetually. It is at the altar of hearth and family that you must be prepared for your final task. Be there on the seventh day of June."

He strode away purposely.

My mind was still pondering his words when I realized he was about to leave, to go through the gate. I raced down the corridor behind him. "Folquet! A moment, Please!"

He turned his head and smiled, he motioned me forward, but continued walking.

"I didn't even thank you for your help. Is there anything..."

"You paid a high price to enter this place. You gave me the story of your heart and you shared the music of your soul. There is nothing else that can match the value of what you have already given. Make haste now. The days are few.

The sun came over the horizon brighter than any sun had ever been. Folquet seemed to walk straight into the heart of it.
IX:

Exhaustion caught up with me shortly after I left the Abbey. I stopped for a meal, but the full stomach made my longing for rest that much worse. There was no choice but to take a room for the night. Alas, the comfort of a bed did not make sleep come easily. I still did not know where my journey was heading and I had a definite date of arrival that was less than two weeks away. My work had to be done quickly.

I lay alone. My heart longed for Cybilla as my mind contemplated my situation. Here I was in a modern hotel where I would pay whatever price they asked for the convenience of the Internet, when just hours ago I stood in an Abbey built more than eight hundred years ago, speaking to a man who reportedly passed away just after The Peace of Paris ended the Crusades. The Crusades! I don't know what I expected at the outset of my quest, but I was presently living between two worlds, or in some sort of window where the past and present, no, that is not really the right description, maybe the physical and the supernatural interacted. I wondered if the lines of demarcation in time were so pronounced when Folquet began his journey.

. . .

I had hoped that this next task was going to take me to Aix-en-Provence. I knew there was a sacred spring there where a great battle had been fought by the Romans. Many myths surrounded that place, and my spirits were high because the distance was short.

Oh hope, you are a fragile thing.

My research said I was going back to Rome. I had to be in the Temple of Vesta on the first day of Vestalia when the sacrifices were accepted. I wondered what I would have to give. What gift could I give the Goddess of Hearth and Family, the Mother Goddess, that would be worthy of what I asked in return? There was no time to worry about it. I had covered that distance to get to Le Thoronet, and I knew for certain it would take eight days of walking without stopping for any rest to get back to Rome. Eating, sleeping or any mishap at all would put me off my schedule. I had to find another way.

I sat at a table outside a cafe looking over my map. I could rent a car and drive, but it seemed like cheating. I could catch a ferry. Somehow that seemed a little better, but I still felt like this was part of the test, like taking the easy trip would get me there, but be my downfall. Right there I decided I would travel to Toulon. It was only 36 miles, I could be there in less than two days. From Toulon I had more options. So I began to walk.

The weather was pleasant which kept my spirits up, but my heart seemed to be racing all the time. Toulon was a busier city than I had been anticipating. I guess I just had some idea in my head that cities on the coast were more laid back, probably because vacations to the coast were relaxing. But this was a busy port. The crowds were thick and somehow smothering. Before I knew what was happening some young thief had a hold of my guitar case. He took his knife and slit the strap along with a good bit of the skin along my arm, and he ran off as I stood bleeding.

I was stunned watching him disappear into the crowd as the blood oozed through the fingers I clamped over my wound.

I sat down on the curb, took my spare t-shirt and tore a strip of the cotton to wrap around the gash. I used just a few drops of the water from my flask to rinse the area as I made use of the makeshift bandage then I wiped my hands clean on the remains of the shirt. I looked off in the direction my attacker had gone, but the world had swallowed him and my guitar along with him.

I sighed.

An older man sat beside me. He was speaking to me in French, which was not a language I had any working knowledge of. I was American by birth, but spent very little of my life there due to my father's military obligations. I spoke German and some Japanese, thanks to the United States Air Force. I lived and recorded my music outside of London. But I learned Italian because Italy was the place that I escaped to, the place I spent the majority of my time when I was not working, or I guess I should say when I was writing music and needed my muse. Italy was the place Cybilla loved, the place she was real in the world of men, and that alone was reason for me to love it.

Still, French was completely foreign, and I probably sat there looking at the gentleman beside me blankly.

He pursed his lips and gave me a good looking over. "Speak English?" he said at last.

"English or Italian, Sir."

He cleared his throat noisily. "English, then," he rumbled. "Is your arm alright?"

"Yes, it's just a shallow cut."

"Ah, so the ache is for the thing he took, then?"

I smiled a little. "Yes. It's a funny thing, had he asked me for it, I would have given it without hesitation, but losing it like that, pointlessly, hurts me."

"Do not think of his action as pointless. A man must have great need to be so desperate."

I nodded.

"You have some need as well," he started, but his words were interrupted by a bout of coughing, thick with phlegm. He was struggling to catch his breath.

I pulled the flask from my jacket, "take small sips, the water is very cold."

He recovered himself quickly, looked at the flask for a moment and handed it back to me. "Where are you going, Son?" he asked as he pressed his hand to my chest.

"Rome. I must be there before June seventh. I was hoping I could find a boat going that way and buy passage."

"Eh, do not buy," he said waving his hand in the air as though he shooed my words away. "You are young and healthy, you can work as a deck hand. I know a boat leaving for Civitavecchia this day. You want I should bring you to it?"

The odd phrasing made me smile, but hopefully he thought it was a grateful smile as I eagerly accepted his offer.

The walk was short. For a man who could barely breathe a short while ago, his pace was quick. The boat was very old, but meticulously, fastidiously restored. The woodwork must have taken thousands of hours to carve. I stood admiring her beauty as my companion climbed aboard.

"Armon?" he called, and a man very close to my age came to the deck and greeted him kindly. They spoke in French, so much of the conversation was lost to my ear, but Armon said something like, 'you found him, the one we waited for?' to which my companion simply answered 'yes'.

They came back to the dock and spoke to me. Armon was sailing the boat back to its owner now that the renovation was completed. I could not imagine how it would hurt to hand over something that you put your sweat and blood into, but perhaps it was not the first, nor the last and he'd become immune to the beauty and the loss. Or perhaps he did not feel loss giving such beauty back to the world. He said the trip would take five days on this boat, but the work would be difficult because no modern navigation was added to the restoration. We would be sailing her exactly as she had been sailed hundreds of years ago: navigating by the stars and praying for good winds.

Yes, this was the route my journey was meant to take.

As we made to set sail, I asked Armon what the price was, but he refused my money. He said I had already paid his uncle. I told him I had not given any money. And he said he knew that, but what was given and my hand in help was all he needed.

We loosed the ropes that held her to the dock. The old man stood and watched as we began to drift away. Then he raised his hand and called out; "May the water always be your friend, Oren Gale!"

And I knew that Dia sent him for me.
X:

The day came at last. Every beat of my heart felt like a fist pounding upon a door. I was showered and clean shaven. I told myself I wanted to look decent when Cybilla came to me. I did not want to think about what it was going to take to get to that moment or the possibility that the moment I was living for might not happen. I did not want to think about dying.

. . .

The sky was so dark it seemed like someone had thrown a cloak over the city and hid it away from all light. The air was humid and still; no whisper of breeze stirred the leaves or whistled through the empty streets.

I entered the Forum near the Arch of Titus and sat to wait on the steps of the Temple of Antonio and Faustina. I couldn't say why I was waiting. The day was here, I could have gone and sat on the steps of the Temple of Vesta, but something inside told me to wait for the fire in the east.

I was humming the tune that I surely would have been playing on my guitar had I still possessed it. My heart seemed to calm just thinking about the music. And at last I saw that first glimmer of light break through the darkness. My body began moving almost before my eyes registered it.

There upon the temple steps stood a young woman modestly dressed in white. Her long hair was tied back, her hands were folded in front of her, and she seemed to be waiting for me.

"The fire is lit, Pontifex, you should pay your tithe and go make your offering," she said.

"What does that mean, Pontifex?" I asked.

"You are the bridge builder, are you not? You have come to open the way between the Gods and the Earth, have you not, Oren Gale?"

"Yes, I have, My Lady."

"Then you should pay your tithe, and go place your offering of water by the fire. Be mindful, the vessel must keep the water from touching the earth."

I pressed the last of the antique coins into her hand, bowed my head in respect and made my way up the stairs. An unearthly fire burned at the center of the temple. Colors not usually associated with flame flickered at its heart. The heat was intense, but I knelt before it. I took the flask from my pocket and looked at the engraving that covered the silver surface: lotus blossoms, of course, the symbol of purity, flower of the water. I gently set the flask at the edge of the fire and prayed that the goddess accept my offering.

It was only a moment before the fire began to change. It rose to a great height under the dome of the temple, engulfing all of the dais upon which it burned. The colors twisted and churned until at last they burst into pure white light and from them walked The Mother herself, the Goddess Vesta.

I knelt before her, my head bowed in supplication. "Holy Mother, I do not know how to properly address you to show my respect."

She laughed lightly. The sound was music to my ears, and my heart felt joy.

"I have been known by many names; Vesta, Gaia, Nut, Nertha, Terra Mater, you may call me any of those or Mother is fine. Rise Oren Gale, let me see the man who stands as Pontifex before me."

I rose to my feet before her and we stood in silent judgment until at last she smiled.

"Say your thought aloud. Let me hear it in your own voice!"

"Forgive me, My Lady, I was thinking it was no wonder Folquet changed his life. It is not just your beauty, but your voice is music."

"And it is no wonder Cybilla longs for you. I think in the world of men, there are very few like you."

"What task do you ask of me? What can I give that is worthy of what I ask in return?" I asked.

She held up her hand. "There are no more tasks, Oren Gale. You have passed every gate that stood in your way."

"But I don't understand. I did not do anything."

She stepped close to me and placed her hand upon my cheek. "There is almost always something a man is unwilling to give, be it his pride, his tears or his life. You gave Kira your past, your family heirloom. You gave Janus joy. You gave Carmenta your greatest treasure, your memory. You gave Foy passion. You gave Dia perhaps the most important gift, your hope. You had your future stolen from you, but instead of bitterness or anger you turned around and shared the water of life with a stranger. And each of them left their mark upon the gate. The last task is yours. Do you know where the gate is?"

I thought about her words. Each of them left their mark upon the gate. Each of them touched my heart, the place I carried Cybilla with me always. I was the gate, the gate was my heart. "Yes, Mother, I know where the gate is. How do I open it?"

"We open it here, together. Are you ready then?"

I refused to feel fear, when joy was so close. "Yes, I am ready."

Vesta placed her hand upon my heart and the unnatural fire that burned when I arrived grew between us. I felt the heat, but it did not burn me. Then at last the white light burst from the flame.

"Call her now, Oren Gale, call her to you."

The whiteness burned inside me like my soul was aflame. "Cybilla!" I called out in agony. "Cybilla, please come to me!" I could not maintain this gate for long. I began to sing my words of love, the words that comforted my heart, but it was not enough. I fell to the ground.

"No!" Cybilla screamed. I could hear her beside me. I succeeded only to die in her arms.

"He passed all of your tests! Why did you do this?" Cybilla cried out.

"I did not do this, Child. This was not the way it was supposed to happen."

"Where is his flask? Were is the water from my mother?"

"It is still in the flame."

Cybilla lay my head down gently. I heard her cry out in agony, but she returned a moment later. I felt her fingers on my face as she tipped the flask between my lips. "Oh swallow, Oren, please! You must do this! Do not leave me here alone!"

I felt the cold water in my mouth, but I do not know if I swallowed it. I do know I could feel the life return to my body. Cybilla had her hand on my heart. I slid mine over hers. She gasped and she began to cry.

"Oren, I missed you terribly. I was so afraid you would never come. I love you, don't leave me."

"I will never leave you." I whispered as I opened my eyes and looked at her. There she was, my heart, my soul, my song. I pushed myself to sitting and gazed at her. It was hard to tear my eyes from her perfect face, but as I reached out to sweep the hair from her forehead, I noticed the angry red marks on her arm. "You reached into the fire?"

"You needed the water."

"Come to me, Cybilla," The Mother called.

We both rose. Cybilla stepped forward. The Mother took Cybilla's injured hand and gently ran her own hand over it. "You risked yourself to save him. Your task is completed. Oren, give me the flask."

It was nearly empty, but I handed it her as she asked. She poured the last drops over Cybilla's hand and closed it between her own. Cybilla flinched, but her hand was perfect once again.

"Go now. Live."

"Thank you, Great Mother." Cybilla said as she took my hand and held it tight.

"One last thing, Oren Gale. You made a promise to another. She desperately wants what you and Cybilla have found. Write your song. It shall be what the story was for you and when that man plays the flute for her, she will be released to the world of men."

"You have my promise, My Lady."

Vesta stepped back onto the platform where the fire burned. The flames rose and the colors swirled until they burst into white light and the gate opened once again. For a moment I could see Folquet waiting for her on the other side.

And the gate closed.

"Come, My Love," I told her, "let's go home."

She was still with me in the morning.

Cover Art by Delaney Haig

Cover image is Public Domain {{PD-US}} Copyright expired, free of known restrictions under copyright law.

*About the Author*

Mindy Haig is a graduate of Rutgers University in New Brunswick New Jersey. She was born and raised in New Jersey and is very much a city slicker. Haig moved to Florida to marry her sweetheart after college and marveled at how little there was to do and how much one had to drive to do it! But due to a job change and an abrupt move, she settled in Austin, Texas where the motto is 'Keep Austin Weird' and she trys her best to uphold it! She is the mother of 2 great kids and though writing has always been a pursuit Haig was interested in, being a Mommy got in the way for quite a few years. Mindy decided she would give it a fair shake in 2009 and hasn't been able to quit since. Haig has 4 completed novels and 4 additional started novels plus 2 sequels all in various stages of gestation. She has a hard time stopping her ideas and when a seemingly great idea hits - typically just as she attempts to fall asleep - she is compelled to start an outline.

Capturing Perfection – An artist's tale of love, loss and beauty in Renaissance Milan

Cara Goldthorpe

\--- For the one whose beauty I will never seek to capture. ---
\--- The soul is born, alive with music and colour and beauty. Our talents, meant to be explored and celebrated and shared with the world. But when that is stolen, the inner beauty becomes twisted by forlorn rage and rusty fear. And then the soul begins to crumble. ---

When it's another that we hate, we destroy ourselves.

When it's another that we love, we destroy them.
One

Falling Shadows

There are some beauties in life that cannot possibly be described. To attempt to put such wonders into words would do them injustice. Impossible to capture Nature's exquisite perfection, some things are better left unsaid.

And so that is why I wanted to show them.

I could sit in the garden for hours, a whole day. Perhaps I would spend even longer just watching the grass, if I didn't have to eat or care for my younger sisters or help cook dinner.

I'd look at the way the light sifts through the trees, and spatters the ground with crisscrossing patterns of different shades of green. At the way the delicate blossoms would be swept up by the spring breeze, whirl through the air, and then gently settle down to earth.

All these things I watch, I see, I remember.

And then, then I paint. With my brush I gently stroke the canvas, bringing life to the brushed white fabric. Imprinting upon it the world. Imprinting it with myself. Immortalising the world's beauty, with the delicate wave of my hand.

I look at what others create too. At the work of other painters, other pilgrims on this endless journey to capture the perfection of the world that we see. And I realise: our sight differs.

I suppose it is a good thing, it makes life interesting. But it also means the line between right and wrong is blurred. Some people think they can do things, that those things are justified, when they're actually hurting and destroying beauty.

That is what I now know.

* * *

Milan, 13 August 1447

If change were to be pinpointed, to be attached to a specific event, this would be it.

This was the day that Filippo Maria Visconti, Duke of Milano, died.

To me, what happened on that date has little significance. But everything that followed was another matter. The consequences surged forth, greater than a mere ripple, like the waters of the Po River in the springtime after the snow from the Alps melted and bled into the valley.

I wouldn't know it at first. I wouldn't have expected it. And I was only a girl, barely a woman, who lived in her fantasy worlds and daydreamed and painted. My family was wealthy, and I could do what I liked. I didn't have to work, and I would go to the markets with my amateur pictures and feel important whenever anyone glanced my way.

I suppose that's what its like. Change, that is. Things aren't obviously different, all of a sudden. It's a gradual process. And when things start getting bad, initially you don't notice. You adjust, day-by-day and week-by-week, to new circumstances. You don't realise at first that you're sinking.

Then it hits, and you're submerged.

I was a young woman, and I'd never had to think about such political matters. First I didn't understand anything. Then I became vaguely aware of some sort of power struggle.

Problems, my city was reeking with problems. Our Duke had left without a male heir and various parties attempted to seize control. It seemed there would be order, with the formation of the Golden Ambrosian Republic. But nothing is ever so straightforward.

My father was a Republican, one of the true ones, who fought for democracy and opposed some man called Gonzaga. Too many intelligent men, men who could have governed our city and ensured its prosperity, were being replaced by clueless and greedy aristocrats. There was no one to manage affairs properly. No one to ensure the heart of beloved Milano kept beating steady.

Instead, it faltered and struggled.

Other cities declared their independence: Pavia, Lodi and Piacenza. They wanted to detach themselves before the disorderly undercurrents manifested into greater, more tangible problems that could crumple their walls.

It was a real threat, not an imaginary one. Not to mention the on-going clashes with Venezia.

That is a fact of this existence I wrestle with, constantly torn by a futile search for understanding. Why, why in the midst of such a rebirth of culture, a renaissance of ideas, is there still conflict? Whilst art and music and life are celebrated, still people die senselessly as men struggle to prove their dominance.

It is as if the beauties, wonders, creations that surround us, cannot exist without the ravishing of land and people alike. More than we dare to accept, than we would ever admit, the darkness is inspiring.

It is brighter than this reawakening of past glory.

* * *

Piazza Broletto, Milan, February 1449

She remembered being caught up in the crowd that day. The chaos. The sweaty stench, bodies pressed together and a mob of citizens pulsing down the streets that flushed into the market square.

Some clambered eagerly for a glimpse, as if drawn to the abhorrent sight. And the very thought that those people actually wanted to see such things made her want to retch. Sent her stomach into spasms, her throat clenching tight, her mouth so dry that even had she wanted to scream, she would not have been able to manage.

In the mayhem, the air seemed to sizzle with a sickening odour of rotting flesh. A strange heat warmed her, despite the winter cold and the wind that lashed the exposed skin of her face.

A man jostled her and the next moment she felt the freezing stone of a marble column against her back. She drew a square of cloth over her nose and part of her mouth, trying to catch some respite from the smells. Closing her eyes, she let blind relief consume her senses.

Then the tide of people swept her up again and she stumbled into the piazza.

There it was, right before her eyes.

Heads. Human heads, of men her father had once worked with. Ghibellines.

Maybe he was there too. Maybe...

Some people were crying out in voices that, to her ears, bore hints of glee. It's as if the suffering of one brought, to another, the thrilling shockwaves of glory rippling through their body.

At once, you feel fragile, as pain and death rears before you in a startling reminder of human mortality. At the same time, there is this hideous rejoicing that you are still alive, still present on earth, still there to see this sight and record history with your eyes.

I'm going to paint that day, paint its horrendous magnificence. Lord help me, for I should but do not feel ashamed.

* * *

Paula watched her daughter, Cecilia, where she sat cross-legged in their little courtyard, her eyes glazed and misty in her own dream world.

Once, Paula would have smiled. Now, she cringed. The prospect of what was coming wrenched her gut, and little beads of sweat formed upon her brow.

Life was about to change for them. No more idle summer days, drinking fresh juice and basking in the sun. No more cosy winter nights with warm red wine, and bowls of polenta groaning beneath a heap of mushrooms and chunks of roasted veal.

No more, now that Franco was gone.

There was no chance of them staying here. Paula did not know what she would do, or where she would take her infant daughters. Her sons would have to provide for them now, though they were not yet men.

It was Cecilia who had a chance for happiness.

"Cecilia," Paula murmured. She approached her daughter, and gracefully knelt to the ground, her skirts sweeping around them. "Cecile..." Her voice trailed away. She could not speak, could not utter the words. Could not break the news.

She tried not to choke, had to hold herself together. Focussed her mind and repeated to herself that this was the right thing to do. Her daughter had a chance, her beautiful daughter who was now desired by a wealthy and powerful man. He could care for her, provide for her where her family could no longer. It was the best option.

Paula tried not to think about the money she would be getting in exchange for her daughter. Tried not to think about why such a sum had been offered. Tried not to think about what could happen, because the harsh truth was she needed the money for the rest of them. Otherwise they had nothing.

She would not feel guilty, could not feel guilty. And she pushed away the thought that Cecilia was merely being used.

* * *

When Mamma sat beside me that day, I knew from the way she looked that something was wrong. She was trying to hide it. The smile was false, I could tell because there was a strange glint in her eyes. A bit of sadness, anger, worry, all mixed together in a way that made it impossible for me to even begin to guess what she was thinking.

I never learnt the full story about what happened. I only could really speculate and try and fit pieces of the puzzle together. So many lost pieces too. Never granting me a full picture, although I had my own very probable ideas. I was getting smarter. I understood things beyond the paints and the palettes and the oil solvents I used to wash my brushes.

Yet there was one certainty. Papa had gone.

I think it must have been linked to the heads I saw, displayed like trophies in Piazza Broletto. They were Republican leaders, Ghibellines, advocates of a true Milanese Republic and democracy – just as my father had been.

I knew he must have held quite a senior position. And whether he'd been murdered for that, or just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, it didn't matter.

I couldn't deny it. He was most probably dead. And fear for the future filled all my heart, so there was no room for me to feel anything else. No bitterness or resentment that he was gone and our lives shattered, forced to pick up the pieces. Only fear.

There was this man I was sent away to. Mamma told me that he had heard of my beauty, that I had been noticed at the market where sometimes I tried to sell my paintings. Not many people bought from me. I was an ordinary girl, no one special. People who could afford the luxuries of art would always want to buy from someone famous. So they could brag about a name to their friends. Labels, that's what people care about, more so than true talent placed before their very eyes.

But apparently I had been noticed, for my appearance, was what Mamma had told me.

Back then I remember wishing it was my art that the man had liked. But when we did marry, I learnt a very different truth.

My wish came true. This man, my husband, wanted me for my art. And it ended up being much worse.
Two

Stain of Crimson

His touch upon me was vile. His fat fingers, his greasy smile, his tiny eyes that had this triumphant gleam in them. As if he'd conquered me. He thought he'd conquered me.

Repulsive.

But that was not the worst part, not at all. The way he forced his body into mine, stroked my hair, smothered my lips, that was not what I found worst.

It was being enslaved that burned me. Sent me spinning into a fiery rage. Having my identity taken away – that is indescribable. Cuts into you, scorches you, splashes you with flaming crimson paint. Making me bleed inside.

He forced me to paint, and then he stole my art. He sold it under his own name. Revelled in the glory of being the centre of attention. At every dinner, every ball we were invited to, men and their wives would marvel at his talent.

He is talented, yes. He has talent for cruelty.

I remember our wedding night. Consummating the marriage. It was not what I expected, not beautiful with the passion and desire and love that you hear about in the stories.

Instead it was painful, shredding me apart, sharp and abrupt. Absent of tenderness, reeking of his lust.

But I could deal with that; perhaps the stories were wrong. Since I had never known another man, I had nothing to compare to. Perhaps this was real. Perhaps this was it, just an animalistic meeting of bodies, void of a more intimate and deeper connection.

Yet what followed, the theft of myself, I knew instinctively was unnatural. How do I begin to explain, what it's like when I place a brush upon canvas? The colours come from within, not from the array of paints on my palette. The richness and depth comes from my heart, the strokes of my brush each delicately placed with purpose and meaning.

I live within my artwork; I am what I create, and it defines me. I never asked for fame. I only ever painted because I felt compelled to do so, from within the depths of my soul. It is what makes me who I am, and the way I unravel and explain the world.

When I paint, I put forward my inner emotions, my musings, dreams... desires. And so when he hurts me, when he takes that away and claims my beautiful creations as his own, revulsion bubbles up. I cannot bear it.

And the colour fades. My work becomes black. Scarred by the ugliness within him.

* * *

I learnt the truth quickly, after he'd taken me from my family. Or rather after my mother sold me. Yes, I discovered that too. It is another certainty about my life, alongside Papa being gone.

At first I didn't realise why he was buying me paints. Naively, I assumed he was being nice. Considerate. That he'd known about my love of painting, and wanted to make me happy.

I couldn't have been more wrong. Making me happy was never on his mind. He never cared about me, only about what I produced, and if it was to his satisfaction.

* * *

He grabbed me by the wrists, his face twisted with anger for some reason or another. I'd obviously failed something.

He snarled in my face.

"What is this?"

I swallowed and raised my chin in defiance of the question. It is a stupid question and I don't understand what he's asking. I painted the woman, the woman as I'd seen her.

"You are not working hard enough. You're not painting what is there, what is real," he accused.

"I paint what I see," I retorted. Did he not understand, not comprehend, that we all see things differently?

"This... this is monstrous." He ripped the canvas from my easel, spat on it, then turned to me again with saliva bubbling at the edges of his mouth.

"She was ugly." Those three words I said sent him spinning into an unimaginable rage and he struck me, his signet ring puncturing the skin of my cheek. A salty, metallic flavour burst into my mouth.

I imagined how I looked, droplets of sanguine blood glistening upon pale flesh. Staining it in sharp contrast, like cherry blossoms, with their ruby centre amidst white petals.

"You must remember better."

I wanted to shout back that there was nothing wrong with my memory. But instead I simply sank onto my stool, trembling, unable to reply.

I had to do everything from memory, because to the outside world he was the artist. I couldn't be seen alone with the models of the portraits he allegedly painted. No, he would sit there with an easel, pretending to work, and refusing the model a glimpse of his progress. He would say he could not tolerate anyone seeing a half-finished piece that was not yet perfect.

Whilst he hid behind his façade, I would sit in the shadows, observing the posed figure, committing every detail to memory. I would pretend that my presence was for him, in case he needed fresh drinking water or a brush cleaned. All the while I would see that what was on the canvas was nothing but an amateur splash of paints. He had no talent. He could do nothing.

Afterwards, late at night, he would shut me in a room behind the bedchamber where I would recall everything. Work by the light of a candle, until my vision failed me and the canvas blurred before my weary, watering eyes.

* * *

The outside world had never seemed so far away. When loneliness settles in, when you have no one for company but the raging thoughts in your own mind, everywhere else is as distant as a star blinking faintly in the heavens.

I lived, oblivious to the famine and suffering in the city of those caught on the wrong side.

I don't even know what happened. Not properly. I heard things, of course. Several more months had passed, and it was around the time that only a year ago I'd seen those heads in the piazza.

There was some sort of a coup, and the people had surrendered to Sforza.

Sforza.

The name was familiar, yet also seemed too strange for me to ever have known it. He was one of the initial men who had had the support of the people after Visconti's death. When all this started, back then. Perhaps I would have been better off if Sforza had gained power immediately. Then there would be no failed Republic, no conflict between different Republicans. My father would still be alive.

These thoughts swirl in my mind like disembodied voices, void of emotion, as if they are simply mundane facts. Not facts that have shaped my existence, put me in this place today, torn my safe and secure life apart to leave me hovering in a loveless chasm.

There is not even emotion when I think of my family, my younger sisters and my brothers, my mother despite what she did. They are far, too far away to think of. I cannot spare them emotion.

And so I live in another world. Within the corners of my room, the walls of this house, and even the streets when I am escorted for a walk, nothing else exists.

Such is my routine that I notice no change when, four years later, the House of Sforza become the established rulers of the Duchy of Milan.

* * *

He commands me to paint what is there: the world before my eyes, the person posing before us.

I do what I am told. I can do nothing else. I struggle to tell myself that at least I am alive, and that perhaps one day I will be beyond his clutches. I will have my own name, be more than a slave, and paint with the passion of my heart that has been dulled by his abuse.

I know what he wants now. He doesn't want the truth. He doesn't want the world as I see it or the people as I see them. He only wants to please his clients, only wants to make money. His greed makes me wish I was strong enough to ruin his paintings, and ruin myself to deprive him of his desires.

But I am too weak for that, or perhaps too strong. I don't know what it is but I feel bound to, or forced to, share the one talent I was born with. Even if no one knows who I am, and even if no one ever will, I am an artist for a reason. This gift is not mine to destroy. It is beyond me, part of something greater, and the world deserves to see my paintings.

Yet still I hate what I do. I hate making ugly people beautiful, and disguising monstrosity. I want to depict what I see, the flaws and the blemishes and the inadequacy of humanity. Perhaps other artists do not think of it that way, but to me it is perfection. Showing what is, showing it bluntly.

And then when I paint beauty, the contrast makes it all the more wondrous.

* * *

We're at a ball, hosted by some wealthy agent who is a fanatic of my husband's work. There are other artists present too, the successful ones relishing in the prestige of being considered pioneers of renaissance art. But I have learnt these are but a few. To be invited to such events as this, one must be rich and talented. Talent alone never suffices.

Am I a living proof of this?

My husband looks at me, slyly, his dark eyes beady and twinkling. He is introducing me to someone, and delighting in the lusty looks this other man sweeps over my body. He is happy that he is married to a woman desired by others. Happy that I am his to do with what he wishes. His alone.

I glance downwards. Focus on the woven patterns in my pastel pink damask gown. Gather my wits and look upwards again, offering a faint smile. It is better to pretend to be happy in public, to look the compliant and content wife. To fight in public is to look insane to onlookers. I can struggle all I want in private.

A waiter approaches, a silver serving tray balanced on one gloved hand. I look at the wine glasses, at the deep mahogany fluid in some, and the glistening, pale lemon colour of the others.

I have acquired a new taste. I never drank much in the past, with my family. I suppose I was still a girl then. But now, I crave the juice of fermented grapes. White, I like the white wine. The way the chilled liquid feels like it's sparkling upon my tongue, and then surges down my throat. Makes my head lighter, brighter, slightly dazed.

Aching thoughts that had hammered through my mind all day are now swept away by a thirsty gulp. It is a cure for my parched soul, deprived of the freedom that made me who I was.

I am finished with my glass already, and another waiter is passing with another tray. I reach out. I want more. I need more.

I take it and drink too fast, faster than before. The world is beating before my eyes, almost as if there are drums in my ears. Pounding out a rhythm. People are moving fast, too fast. Everything is a whirl of luminous shadows and I think I'm actually smiling. I'm happy.

This is one of those moments I would never wish to describe. I would only want to paint. Dresses merging with other dresses, as dancers twirl and fabrics shimmer, blending together they're moving so quick.

I don't make sense, I sound illiterate and the words babble from my mouth in gibberish nonsense as if I am an infant. It doesn't matter, because the beauty is in the surging, pulsing, vibrating colours of the room.

I want to join them, want to leap amidst this rhythm and become one with it. This is my way out. This is how I can rebel. This feels better than struggling away from him, beating him with weak fists that are but hopeless and futile attempts to escape.

I am sinking.

Then I am aware that my cheek is stinging, my hair is pulled. My body feels trampled and my thighs burn as though fire is being rubbed between them.
Three

Sight of Beauty

I wake up, aching all over. I am naked in bed, the covers pulled up around my thinning body.

I see that he is at the window, and when he realises I am conscious, he strides over and strikes me again on my face.

We are alone. So I don't have to pretend anything to the outside world. I should strike back. I would have struck back, a week or even a day ago. I would have bit his fingers and barred my teeth, snarling at him in a desperate struggle for my freedom.

I don't now. I just lie there. My anger is tempered, cooled by some other feeling I am not sure what, that is rippling over me like water.

"You embarrassment."

His accusation doesn't even sting. I don't care. He can beat me, he can hurt me, but he can't break me.

Whatever happens, I will find a way to let that feeling from last night sweep me up and soothe my pain. It will show me a new world, a world where the edges are blurry.

Everything looks better when it's blurred now. When I see, I see too clearly, and the clarity stings.

* * *

I have a new project now. I like this one.

Because I'm not confined to depict a false reality, distorting the truth of what I see. Instead, I can paint anything on the cards. I can paint anything I imagine, as long as I follow the basic structure of the tarocchi deck.

There are to be seventy-eight playing cards in total, with twenty-two trump cards and fifty-six minor cards in four suits: cups, coins, swords and batons.

Sforza himself commissioned my husband to paint the set. Which of course means work for me. But at least this work offers some freedom. I can reach above and beyond reality, into the ethereal dimensions of my mind and the layered levels of existence.

I burn with the throbbing hunger of inspiration, from nowhere and everywhere at once. Questions rise up from the world outside me and the feelings within, and the maddening corners of my soul.

Now, I have an answer to find.

* * *

Sometimes my husband let me wander outside, though only with a chaperone of course. I had to be guarded, more closely than a valuable artwork.

One of my favourite places, aside from summer days in the gardens, was the San Marco church. It is not as grand as the magnificent soaring spires of the Duomo di Milano, but to me it evokes tremendous sentiment.

Its splendour lies in its relative simplicity, humility, and the tender frescoes that feel like family. I would sit within the church, and look up at the impossibly high domes, and the way the stone curved and folded in the most elegant of lines. I would wonder how humans had ever succeeded. In conquering the stone, in the mastery and dominance that sent a structure such as this reeling toward the heavens.

It would make my head hurt, thinking about it. Just how humans have achieved so much, and yet how vain we are becoming. Once we placed all belief in a divine being, and now we worship ourselves. Both faiths laced with folly, lacking compromise, deficient in balance. There must be another way, a key that is neither black nor white, but somewhere in between.

Yet even this church, humble compared to the Duomo, speaks otherwise.

These structures are not in honour of the Lord. They are a stark reminder of our greatest shortcoming.

Wars will keep raging, as ambition to conquer reigns untamed.

* * *

Sometimes I would pause from my work, to play with the unfinished deck of cards. I couldn't help it. They fascinated me.

Is that strange, that something I create fascinates me?

Perhaps myself fascinate me. I confess, sometimes I look at a painting of mine, and I smile. It makes me feel good. I make myself feel good.

Then other times, I scare myself. I think I am mad. It frightens me where some images come from, when I have not observed them myself in the real world. It's out of thin air, out of my head, drawn from the depths of some god-forsaken corner of my mind.

I don't know where it started, where my thoughts began to come from. I cannot place the source of this invisible whip, lashing me in a vicious chase to unearth an abyss of unknown realms.

I knew I had to break away. I had to stop looking at the cards and believing in the images, and thinking about whom I was and why I was here, where I came from and where I would go. Fate taunted me, like a jealous sister.

And if I didn't cut her loose, I would truly turn insane.

* * *

I found myself a lover. His name was Lorenzo. He told me that his name meant from the place of laurel trees. And in Roman symbolism, the laurel means victory.

We met at some dinner, some function, while my husband chatted and relished in his fame. I had slipped away for some fresh air in the courtyard, away from the heat and the bodies that were making me feel nauseous. I was always tired and fragile, from my late nights working and days focussing and trying to remember the tiniest details of what I would later have to paint. Mindless socialising and hanging off my husband's arm, so that he could show me off as his lovely and dutiful wife, bore down upon me.

Then Lorenzo was there, outside at the fountain. He had sleek chestnut hair that gathered in youthful waves around his ears, with a few strands covering soft brown eyes. They had reflected the moonlight that night, shining bright.

He asked me who I was. I hadn't replied, just stared at him, captivated by this mirage of beauty. He was beautiful as an angel, a true angel, like the ones only in my dreams. His soul radiated with light and I wanted then and there to paint him.

He was balm to my sore eyes, eyes that had strained for too long in a dark room, forced to produce only what I was told. Conforming to every request, whether commanded by my husband or my own tormented spirit.

"Take me away," I uttered. My voice sounded foreign. I was used to it being laced with bitterness, resentment and anger, from retorting to one of my husband's comments. This time the sound was a gentle purr, as if I was a stray cat, meowing a mournful call for the loving stroke of a stranger.

He raised a brow, a brow of thick and unruly hair that made him seem wild and free from the harsh constraints of reality.

He took my hand, he kissed it, and he told me I was a maiden in distress who he would save. He would be victorious, in conquering my heart and saving me from my troubles.

Lorenzo, from where the laurel trees are.

Where victory is.

* * *

I started eating more. I grew hungry again. Before, abstaining from food had been my rebellion. It was my one way of proving to myself I still had control.

Food had always been a love, a passion. I remember cooking with Mamma, preparing meals for our family. All of us together, back when Papa was still around. Crispy bread doused in rich, golden olive oil, and served alongside fresh tomatoes with bursting skins they were so ripe. Silky, bright saffron risotto melting upon my tongue and gliding fluidly down my throat...

Resisting the delicious food cooked in the kitchens of my husband's manor had been difficult. That was the point. Resistance strengthened my mind, whilst my body weakened.

Yet suddenly I was hungry again. I couldn't resist. My self-control crumbled and I couldn't be bothered fighting in that way.

I realised I didn't want to whither and die from starvation. I just wanted to escape into another world with Lorenzo. This would be different to the loneliness, where my only company was the crazed thoughts in my head.

* * *

We talked in secret. I left him letters, letters that I slipped out of the small window in the room where I painted, where he would collect them. We shared our secrets. I told him the truth. He didn't seem to mind, he didn't care that I was married to another.

I wanted him, ached for him, burned to spend precious time in his company. And one night when my husband was away on a visit to Florence, he came to me.

Never for a moment was I guilty for being unfaithful. Not after what my husband did to me. Lorenzo was a chance I had, a way out, a spark of happiness in a world where slowly my life drained out onto the canvas.

Over and again, I would relive those moments with him.

* * *

"Lorenzo," I murmured.

"Come here."

When I heard him say those words, saw him reaching out to me, my breath caught in my lungs. Left me trembling with some emotion I knew must be love.

His arms closed around me, protecting me in that moment from the world and all it's harshness. Away from my husband, finally my body melted with tenderness and relaxed against his.

I could hear the beat of his heart. Feel the pulse in his veins. Pulling back ever so slightly, I could tell that sincerity shone in his eyes. It was true. This was real. This was beauty and I would remember every tiny detail. From the curve of his nose, to the smooth lines of his lips, to the slight indent in his left cheek that suggested an injury from a childhood brawl.

I would remember.

* * *

My affair with Lorenzo was different. I wasn't like the other ladies, other wives I had met.

Many of us had lovers; I knew because we would confess to one another after several glasses of wine, giggling about secret escapades down the canals in the light of the moon.

They did it for excitement, to add flavour to their boring lives. But I was not with Lorenzo for the thrill. Not for the danger, of riding on the edge and running the risk of being caught. Not for an amusement to fill my time with.

It was something different that drew me to him. This beauty of his heart and soul, as well as his body, called to be captured.

He restored my passion to paint reality. He revived my hunger to immortalise the world and it's wonders, the love and the joy and the sparkling golden droplets of sunlight, spangling the canal waters and reflecting off the ripples left by little boats.

I wanted to do this, and more. Finally I could be true to my sight, I could depict what was before me in its raw magnificence.

I had to paint. I was driven to paint.
Four

Touch of Darkness

Never have I worked so hard on a painting. Never. This had to be perfect because Lorenzo was perfect, and to picture him anything but was a travesty and a sin.

I ordered new brushes, tiny ones made from a few threads of delicate horsehair. I needed them tiny, in order to depict every curl upon his head, every shadow of every shade, when the light fell upon his features.

The picture was my obsession. It was a mission to capture perfection. It became the only thing I cared about and the only thing I wanted to do. The thing that kept my heart beating, sustaining me, giving me purpose.

So long as the painting remained unfinished, imperfect, I knew I had to live.

* * *

My husband found me working. I couldn't conceal it. He knew I was up to something else because I was late with the other piece he'd been commissioned for. The cards; I hadn't completed them. There were four to go, the Devil, the Tower, the Three of Swords and the Knight of Coins. The deck needed to be finished, for a celebration of Sforza and his wife Bianca Maria Visconti, daughter of the deceased duke.

At first my husband seemed angry. He struck me. He demanded I finish the cards and he asked me who this man was. Of course I didn't speak the truth, I merely shrugged and said it was all from my imagination. Not one person but a collection of assorted beautiful attributes from different people I'd seen.

My husband was angry I hadn't painted him.

But then he let me continue. He must have realised it was the most wondrous picture I was ever painting, and his greed had taken hold. Of course he wanted me to finish, because he wanted to sell it for a fortune.

I didn't even let that bother me. I couldn't even think of the future. Placing every brushstroke with certain, exact precision was the only thing that mattered. The only thing I could possibly think of, because it consumed every fibre of my being.

Still the beauty of Lorenzo eluded my hands. And I would crumple into bed, body aching from its hunched position over my canvas, tears leaking from my eyes that had spent too long squinting at the tiniest detail.

I could not rush this project. Could take no shortcut, could be satisfied with no flaw. He had no flaws, and the painting could have none either.

* * *

I could not pause, could not give the portrait a rest. It demanded my entire attention. Commanded me to work, and never to stop, until I had achieved a masterpiece.

It even haunted my sleep; for I would paint Lorenzo in my mind, recalling pictures stored in my heart, a gallery of memories from our secret meetings in the starlight of crisp autumn nights.

At first the thought of him would warm me, when the breeze blew cold outside, and stiff joints ached and groaned.

But then the feeling became too hot. An obsessive, fearsome burning propelled me forward, emanating from my heart and scalding my fingers whenever I touched a brush.

I should have stopped. I should have ripped myself away, then and there, whilst I could. Whilst I still had a footing in reality, had Lorenzo's arms wrapped around me, I should have broken free.

I could have broken free. I could have run away; he would have cared for me and we would have found a way. Yet it was I who trapped myself. In this endless journey, to strive to capture upon the canvas my feelings and what I saw.

This image of beauty, it was more important to me now than any tangible love, any physical connection with him and the real world. I wanted to realise my ambition more than anything else, this was my existence now and it was the painting and the painting alone that mattered.

At first, Lorenzo had been my freedom. My escape. A sanctuary and a sparkling light even though we could only ever meet in darkness.

Yet too soon, the greatest flaw of my being awakened, this accursed fault that try as I might I couldn't suppress.

I blamed my husband for it, for making my entire existence revolve around my art. Depriving me of anything beyond it, so that I could not appreciate love. Could not even cherish my own memories, because everything was about the paint. My life was the canvas and each stroke upon it was a stain, tarnishing me further, binding me closer. To complete the painting was to secure the curse.

And because Lorenzo had been too perfect, too good for me, he would be the one to suffer when I morphed into this monster.

There was no other way. There could be no other way. In a scary moment, amidst the turmoil, time seemed to freeze and I saw clearly once again. I teetered on the brink of an abyss, on the edge of chaos, realising everything. Knowing my future, understanding my fate, and conscious that I could not avoid it.

* * *

The painting was gone. The painting had been taken. It must have been my husband, for to another's eyes, it was finished.

But I had failed to complete Lorenzo, to preserve the fabled history of our love.

In a fury, I ripped out my brushes and I grabbed the final four blank cards that needed an image. They would be the last reminder of this world I would have, the last visible tokens. For Lorenzo was gone: and I started to lose my sight.

Perhaps it had been coming all along. A culmination of the long nights, working away by the feeble candle glow.

But though I blamed it on that and on my husband, I knew it was simply my will to see. Nothing could ever compare to such beauty, and now Lorenzo's beauty was fading into the night whilst my rage swept me up into a fiery vortex. I didn't have his portrait. I couldn't see his face. I had nothing to hold on to and my memory was twisted by the tingling rage of betrayal and insanity.

It could have been perfect, with Lorenzo. If I'd nurtured that feeling, truest of true, bringing happiness always and forever.

But life isn't like that, life isn't smooth, life stabs at you and cuts you and lets you down time and time again.

Sometimes you manage to hide it, and shut out your troubles. Concealing them beneath a smiling mask, you hide the flaws even from yourself. Ignore them. The cracks, the tiny fissures that with time will only grow into a vicious rupture that splits you apart.

And in those times when you really need strength, when you really need to show courage and hold yourself together just for a minute, that is always when your mind fails you. Giving way to heartache. Pain.

A burning hot bubble of fiery shame and frustration seizes hold inside your chest. Tears burst from the corners of your eyes and scar your cheeks as though they were acid.

You tried. You thought you'd conquered the world. That you were invincible and finally all those complicated pieces of life had just fallen into place. The puzzle solved, problems resolved. Everything just fine, or more than fine – perfect.

But perfection itself is flawed. The mission to capture it reveals your incompetence. The closer you look the more you realise your inadequacy.

There had been no problem, but I'd created one. I'd fabricated a problem within myself. Because he'd been too perfect, and I'd wanted to capture him.

Tears stormed from my eyes and I pressed something to my face to try and muffle my grief. I realised it was a card: The Tower, struck by lightning. Some oil paint that had not quite dried yet smeared upon my face.

I struggled to my feet, but my legs wouldn't hold me and I tumbled back down to the floor. My arms had swung around in an attempt to stay balanced, but it only served to bring a box of tools crashing along with me.

I gripped a palette knife. I looked towards the window. Glimpsed a figure, a shadow slightly darker than the night outside.

* * *

Before my marriage, I'd been free as an autumn leaf, whipped up by the breeze and roaming wherever the wind took me. My talent flourished, I was happy, I was fertile. At ease with the world, unconstrained by expectation, calm and content to float where fate would take me.

And then, then my spirit froze within a cage of loneliness. I shut out emotion, for it hurt too much, and feeling nothing was better than pain. But when I don't feel, I can't paint. Not truly, not in the way I was born. I know I can't paint because I can't picture things in my mind. Images are sterile, colours stark and refusing to blend together. I was ceasing to exist, as the emotion that defined me disappeared.

Then my lover, he had warmed me. Nurtured my bleeding soul and melted the icy shackles of bitterness and abandonment. Gave a kiss of life to a barren womb, awakened feeling in a numbed heart and eased those lips once more into a smile, out of their expressionless line.

But the damage was already done. My life had already been defined for me, fixed by those long winter months, alone and afraid. Defined by my brushstrokes, by the blended paints on my palette. I was and could be nothing more.

The eyes that once saw beauty, holding me together and fuelling my soul, are blinded. Furious desire and raging ambition burns my sockets, so I will never see again.

* * *

Lorenzo held the girl's frail body in his arms. He whispered her name, ever so gently.

Cecilia.

She cried up to him, said she couldn't see, that her vision was fading and plunging her into a world, darker and darker.

He rocked her back and forth, like a child. He told her she was just tired. Her response was a feeble sob of acknowledgement. That she was in fact exhausted with life.

He stayed there, afraid to let go. And when they finally did part, in the mournful predawn light, he took four cards with him. Four cards, soaked with tears and blood.

* * *

She couldn't describe things for herself. She preferred to show them, actions louder than words and images so much more powerful.

And so I tell her story. I tell it for her as the life seeps out from the cuts she carved into her wrists with the too blunt palette knife.

She told me things, as she lay dying, while I sat helplessly there. Frozen in time. Unable to move, unable to leave her, there was no going back and we both knew it.

Somehow she conjured visions in my mind. I saw her face in intricate ways, new ways. Every fibre of her being sang its unique song, spinning a miraculous web of multi-coloured light before my eyes.

I kept on blinking, wondering what it was.

She said she died so I would be free. She didn't want to imprison me.

And I'm still struggling to understand.
Note from the author

This is a work of fiction. Though specific events referenced in this story are loosely based upon historical events in Renaissance Milan at the time, the author makes no claim to factual accuracy. There was a period of conflict and instability, however the details of this are not explored, and are only used for inspiration.

All characters are fictional, with the exception of several named historical figures who play no prominent role in the story.

Note that details of the tarot deck mentioned are based upon fact. Early tarot decks are believed to have originated in Renaissance Italy in this region, the most famous of which is the Visconti-Sforza deck. Renaissance artist Bonifacio Bembo is thought to have painted it, although this is not known for certain. The author does not suggest that the protagonist in this story is in fact that artist, and means no disrespect to their work.

Seventy-four of the original seventy-eight cards in the Visconti-Sforza deck are missing, and there is some debate as to whether they ever formed part of the deck, or if they were removed or lost.

At the time when this deck was created, tarot cards were used for playing the game tarocchi and not for divination purposes, however the missing cards and their use in this story are intended to bear a symbolic significance.

*About the Author*

Cara Goldthorpe, founder of Breakwater Harbor Books, is a novelist and poet. Her current project is a literary fiction/fantasy series telling the tale of a war between two races. It is a story about people, emotion and survival, infused with hope and optimism. Personal struggle is portrayed equally alongside the struggles of empires, to highlight the individual's importance and role in the universe.

The main themes in Cara's writing concern finding 'balance' through an understanding of multiple perspectives, and peace by living harmoniously with Nature. Drawing inspiration from real-world history, science, and religion, her work subtly provokes reflection on society and human nature.

For more about Cara and her upcoming releases visit the link below to her Author Page at Breakwater Harbor Books.com.

 http://breakwaterharborbooks.com/cara-goldthorpe.html

Until the Ninth Hour

by C.M.T. STIBBE

Chapter 1

Detective David Van Straubenzee watched the man closely. He had a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach and if he could put a name to it fear was the first thing that came to mind.

"On the night of Monday, June 25th at around eleven o'clock," he said, glancing briefly at his notes, "did you take Kizzy Williams from a tent in Cimarron State Park?"

"Yes," the man said. His slate-grey eyes were dull as if he was already dead.

David chewed absent-mindedly on his bottom lip. He couldn't help wondering if the prisoner was the right man. There was something in his demeanor that didn't quite sit right. He was too pensive in David's opinion, dazed as if he had been hypnotized.

"Morgan, I know this is difficult but when you took Kizzy from the tent was she asleep?"

"Yes."

David was relieved. There was no way the little girl would have gone willingly with a man like Morgan Eriksen. His hair was shaved at the sides except for a thick braid that ran from the tip of his forehead to the crown. His arms were covered in Celtic knots, more colorful than a downtown bus stop.

"Where did you take her?" David asked, looking at his watch. It was ten thirty in the morning.

"About fifty yards downriver there's a ranch," Morgan said, staring at David's bald head as if he could see his face in it. "I parked my pickup there."

"Frank Tolby's ranch, right?"

"Yes."

David listened to the Nordic accent, softer now since he had been living in the States for eighteen years. "Did you hurt her?"

Morgan looked down at his hands. His skin was sallow in the harsh light of the interrogation room and the constant clink of the cuffs reminded David that his prisoner was well-shackled.

"When she woke up I had to choke her. She was making too much noise."

"Did she die when you choked her?"

"No."

"When did she die, Morgan?" David gritted his teeth. This was the part he dreaded the most.

"Not until the ninth hour."

That's how it was with Morgan, indecisive, taking his sweet time with everything. Sometimes he would look up and sniff the air and sometimes he would just flex his hands, big hands, choking hands.

The rest of Kizzy's remains had never been found not even after a pack of sniffer dogs had swept the entire countryside with volunteers from the county sheriff's department. All they found was a statue of a goat with a pentagram on its forehead and eight human faces carved in tree trunks. There were four areas where upright stones marked some kind of ritual ceremony, only they were mostly grown over with grass. The shadows gave a man that feeling, that keen instinct that something wasn't right and the dragonflies with their membranous wings that wafted just above the surface of a small pond were no longer beautiful. There was a jaundiced blush about the place as if the sun would never set.

A tired old barn sat on the property with two doors that creaked in the wind. David remembered creeping forward with a gun in his hand, back pressed against the doorjamb until he was sure there was no one there. A commercial fridge stood in the center, light flickering on and off. It was quite out of place with its hideous display and David couldn't speak, he couldn't move. Four shelves filled with human heads, eight he counted, and all girls. A knackery with axes and knives spread out on a wooden trestle table only there were no hanging carcasses on the meat hooks.

"What happened then?" David said quietly.

He knew what happened then. One of the victims survived just long enough to confine her thoughts to paper and to hide a little red notebook in the straw. A girl, no more than nine years old, had been decapitated. Her head was one of the eight in the barn.

David's daughter was ten years old, same afro hair, same deep-brown eyes . . .

"I put her to bed." Morgan brushed his front teeth over his bottom lip. He half-smiled then.

"Whose bed?"

"The caretaker's. He comes midweek to empty the traps."

David remembered the day they drove in to examine the ranch. The caretaker gave a long hard stare, the kind that lingered long after the car had gone past. Well over six feet tall and at least two hundred and fifty pounds, he was not a man David was willing to wrestle with.

"Did she go willingly?" No, of course she didn't go willingly. She was dragged kicking and screaming by a half-wit three times her size.

"She asked for her dad." Morgan said with a prick of irritation. "I told her he would come for her in a day or two. I told her he knew where she was."

Darryl Williams had no clue where his daughter was. He was fifty yards upriver, wide awake and rousing half the campsite. "Did she believe you?" David said.

"No. She bit me. She always bit me." The bow of Morgan's lips stretched in a generous curve.

"Where did she bite you?"

"Here mostly," Morgan said, pointing at his wrist and the underside of his arm.

There was only a slight indentation now, so tiny anyone would have thought it was a birthmark. But the scar would have been different then, deeper, redder. They arrested Morgan soon after Kizzy's head was found. There was enough DNA on those teeth to incriminate him.

"Did you have occasion to hit her?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"Uh, I told her to be quiet and she kept talking. So I backhanded her."

"Pardon?"

"I backhanded her," Morgan said, making the motion with his hand.

It would have been a hard slap, David thought, looking at the size of those hands. "That would have shut her up."

Morgan narrowed his eyes as if warding off the sun. "You have no empathy for what I did, Detective Van. That's why I'm here."

"What did she talk about?" David said, refusing to be sucked into a battle of wits.

"Transformation."

The word made David shudder. It was a big word for a child to articulate unless she had heard it a thousand times. Kizzy had been educated at Valley Christian School, a place where children much younger recited Bible verse from memory, a school his daughter also attended.

"Transformation?" David repeated.

"Dead to self." Morgan dropped his chin and looked at David sideways. "Weird stuff, you know."

"No, I don't know, Morgan," David said gently. "Why don't you tell me about it?"

CHAPTER 2

Darryl Williams gripped the revolver and stared at the picture. A patchwork of blues and greens so intense, it made his eyes water. Bluebells in a wood, a painting Kizzy had done at school. He had accepted many things in his life but never forgiveness. He had hated a whole life-time's worth in those first few months until he was completely burnt out.

The phone call came two weeks ago. Detective Van Straubenzee called to confirm they had the killer in custody. They had enough evidence to prove he had killed Kizzy, owing to the discovery of a journal they found on the site, a journal they assumed was hers. Now Darryl would understand what happened. He would relive Kizzy's nightmare through her own words.

There can't be any more hate in me, he thought, until a new day came bringing a fresh portion of it.

He still saw Kizzy doing cartwheels in the sun and he could still smell the scent of her hair. Only he couldn't quite see her face. It was a shadow now, unless he found a recent picture of her, and he was tired of crying if he was honest.

Tears don't bring back the dead.

There was a knot of pressure in his chest when he recalled a recurring dream, a face with milky eyes like the one on the autopsy table. It was always without a body and he would wake suddenly and be cruelly reminded he was the one that had survived. There wasn't even the barest threshold of life in that face and thinking of it made him dizzy, disjointed. The nightmares were always the same and a scream would catch in the back of his throat choking him awake.

Pastor Razz said hate makes a man sick. Forgiveness means letting go, lessening the grip of bitterness and pain.

I won't forget. I'll never forget, Darryl thought, brushing a hand over his close-cut hair.

His wife had died after the youngest was born and his three daughters were his pride and joy. But there were men out there preying on the innocent, men like Andy Bordman, Oliver Dinaris, Sam Raines and Peter Strong, men still at large and men so evil; their very faces were enough to keep a child indoors.

Kizzy was baptized a month before she was taken. Darryl supposed that was a fluke. But in his heart he knew it was meant.

"Up is better than down," Kizzy used to say. "That's where the bluebells are."

"Heaven, Kizzy," Darryl corrected. "Where there's no more crying or pain."

"But dad, there are bluebells there. I've seen them."

Kizzy was determined there were carpets of them in the mountains spreading beneath the giant pines. Only bluebells thrived in English woodlands not the sandy loam of New Mexico. Still, they went camping to look for them, the summer she died.

Kizzy was like him, big eyes and a big nose. Darryl began to laugh at that for the first time in seven torturous months. Deep in his throat the sound came like rain beating on the roof tiles and he almost lurched forward in his chair. His mind was suddenly a blur of memories, fishing, hiking, horse-riding and as he looked out of that window where a tall maple tree groaned in the wind, he could still see Kizzy's swing dangling on a burly branch. The seat was powdered with snow now and there were large flakes in the air like the molt of a cottonwood tree.

Best not think about what that man did to her. Best not think of her last moments.

A small part of him always did―especially the last moments. He wished he could have been there if not to save her then to hold her whilst she died. During his darkest times, he would hesitate in his thoughts, pausing to wonder. Why her?

Did that man have a swing when he was a child?

The thought took him by surprise. What did he care? The man was a monster. He was never a little boy with rosy cheeks and a swing to sit on. Was he?

He's someone's son. He's someone's brother. He's. Some. One.

Darryl batted the air with his hand. He didn't want to hear it. Not when Detective Van Straubenzee showed him Kizzie's little green blazer all covered in blood. She was proud of that blazer and the gold embroidered bird on the pocket. It had the words Valley Christian School, Home of the Doves written beneath it.

He snatched his jacket and ran out to his car. Pastor Erasmus Pickering would be waiting for him outside Clemency Baptist Church, a large man with skin the color and texture of well-done steak. He always had a good word to say and the one word that grated on Darryl's conscience was forgiveness.

He could just about forgive the man that flipped him off in Smith's last Saturday night but not a murderer. Not the man that took his little girl and locked her in his house for two days. Her stories had kept her alive until three o'clock on the afternoon of June 27th.

Three o'clock.

Darryl looked down at the revolver in his hand and up again at an army of dust motes drifting lazily in a beam of sunlight. He could hear the creak of his chair and eleven chimes from the clock in the hall. He wondered what Kizzy heard during those last hours. Rain possibly, pattering against the windows and the bark of a dog somewhere in the distance. Had she thought of him? Had she cried out for him?

Kizzy was in heaven where the bluebells are. And that's all that mattered.

Morgan Eriksen was locked up in the Penitentiary of New Mexico safe from the outside world. Safe that is, from the revolver in Darryl's hand. But there would be a day when that monster would have to come outside.

And that day was today.

CHAPTER 3

David shifted his weight in his chair and adjusted his shoulder holster. He sensed something in the air and wanted to leave his hand wrapped round the butt of his revolver. He had interviewed scores of prisoners in his time but none quite like Morgan Eriksen.

He glanced over the victim profile. It had taken the police months to find Morgan and only because a hiker had seen his shiny truck on the Tolby Ranch more than once.

Sandra Adams, 19 / Jaelyn Gains, 17 / Lavonne Jackson, 14 / Mikaela May, 16 / Lyana Durgins, 19 / Serena Pruitt, 18 / Kizzie Williams, 9 / Patricia Eriksen, 21.

Morgan Eriksen stalked young girls. He liked to hang out in school parking lots and watch. He drove a 2008 Chevy Colorado with front fog lamps and alloy wheels and there wasn't a speck of dirt on it. Funny that, considering he spent a good deal of time driving off-road to the ranch. Lucky Frank Tolby was long dead. He'd be miffed if he thought his ranch was being used as a knackers' yard.

"So tell me about transformation, Morgan."

"What part of Africa are you from?"

The question took David by surprise. "Dar es Salaam," he said flatly.

"Tanzania," Morgan said as if he was familiar with the region. "You've never been there have you?"

"No, I have never been there."

"What kind of African are you if you have never been to your home town?"

"My home town is Albuquerque," David corrected. He had never been out of New Mexico in his life.

"Norway is a beautiful country. I used to live there. So many pine trees . . . I love pine trees. Don't you?"

David wondered if Morgan had been consummately evil since birth, or at least since being a toddler. That's when the weird stuff happened like setting cats on fire and throwing lighted clods of dung into the next-door neighbor's open window. There was an incident at Morgan's high school in Norway. A girl's hand had been found nailed to a classroom door and some years later, a human heart posted through the open window of a parked car. The man it belonged to was a lecturer in psychology at the University of Tromsø, a lecturer Morgan didn't much like.

David adjusted his ear-piece and glanced at the two-way mirror. It was the third time Morgan Eriksen had been allowed out of his cell and placed in an interview room where three agents and a doctor in psychology listened behind a sheet of glass. And none of them could make head or tail of it.

"So what made you decide to come to America?" David said, steering the conversation to more general things.

"It's where everyone goes." Morgan said "Everyone that doesn't belong, that is."

"Have you ever been married?"

Morgan gave a sideways look and raised his chin. "That's how I got residency."

"Where is your wife now?" David saw the name Patricia Eriksen in the file and flipped over a few pages to look at her face. Black hair, brown eyes, pretty.

"Well, there's not much left of her."

"What's left?"

Morgan sniffed and raised his lower lip. "Ashes."

"Did you love your wife?" David assumed it was a valid question. After all, they had been married for four years.

"Yes," Morgan said with a trace of disappointment. "She asked too many questions. Odin didn't like that."

David heard the jarring voice in his earpiece. The boys in the box wanted information on Kizzy Williams not Patricia Eriksen. "Let's talk about Kizzy. Is that OK with you, Morgan?"

Morgan looked straight at David and nodded.

"Did you drug her?"

"Yes."

"What with?"

"Sleeping pills and vanilla pudding. It's better for them. They're quieter when they're drugged. I told her Odin was coming in a day or two. She was a little scared I think."

"Who's Odin?"

"A god."

David noted the wide smile on Morgan's face and couldn't help thinking he had overstepped something important. He remembered the god Odin in a school report he had done in eighth grade. Odin was said to be the ruler of Asgard and guider of souls. According to the crime scene investigator, Odin's face had been carved and painted on several tree trunks in the woods.

"What did Kizzy talk about?"

"Her dad. Her sisters."

"Tell me about her sisters."

"Nothing to tell. They're not like Kizzy."

That was the first time Morgan said her name and there was a strange light in his eyes when he said it.

"Did you like her, Morgan?"

"Yes, she was brave. I liked her stories."

Kizzy was a great talker according to her dad. It had kept her alive longer than the others, two days longer if David had calculated right. The others were all dead within nine hours of their kidnapping although Morgan never admitted to killing them.

"What kind of stories?" David watched the shudder on Morgan's temples and the dry swallow in his throat.

"There was one I remember. It was about a ghost town in San Miguel County. Trementina it's called. Do you know it?"

"Yes," David said.

It was his turn to be monosyllabic. All he could hear was the gentle soughing of the air conditioner and he turned his ear towards Morgan, soaking up every last word.

"She and her dad went to Trementina a year ago," Morgan said, a little brighter this time. "They say an epidemic swept through the town in 1901 killing many small children. She said you can still hear groaning in the wind and children crying. At least she could."

"Did you believe her?"

"Yeah, I hear it sometimes down by the ranch."

"Do you think of her when you hear it?"

Morgan clenched his jaw and sighed loudly. "Sometimes."

Good, David thought. Because sometimes is going to turn into always.

"She said every time she saw a ruined house she felt sad. I told her it was the residue of what was left behind, a little part of their personality. That's the part I like to keep."

David had found body parts in that commercial fridge. Fingers, hair clippings, souvenirs of those he killed. The defense psychologist ruled that Morgan had acute distress disorder and PTSD, both of which were thrown out by the jury. The same jury deliberated for less than three hours and gave him the death penalty.

"She was worried her father would miss her," Morgan said, eyes burning with a rekindled fire. "I told her people sometimes disappear without a trace. They simply vanish."

David wanted to shake his head. People didn't simply vanish not unless they were sucked up in a rotating vortex and dumped in a flying saucer. And what was the betting this nutcase had told Kizzy that?

He studied Morgan a little more closely. He was not dirty looking like a vagrant, not even when they picked him up. In fact, he was freshly shaved with a pressed white shirt and jeans. There was a smell of soap about him and if it wasn't for an armful of tattoos peaking through the cotton of his sleeves, you would have thought he was an advertising executive.

"She said she could feel them in that place," Morgan continued, "like warm breath on your face when no one's there."

"Kizzy said that?"

"She wanted to see the flagstone houses, the corrals, the outhouses. She wanted to touch every stone in case she could see them. But there was nothing left and it bothered her."

Kizzy's words were articulate if indeed they were Kizzy's words. But what were the words of a nine year-old, a scared nine year-old?

"She wanted me to believe she wasn't afraid."

"Wasn't afraid of what, Morgan?"

"Me."

The last word was chilling. Kizzy had to have been terrified of Morgan because he was her abductor. He was a stranger. The one thing she had been warned not to talk to.

"Did you believe her?" David asked.

"Yes, until Wednesday morning."

And then something changed.
CHAPTER 4

Darryl drove down State Road 14, a cracked stretch of tarmac west of Oro Quay Peak. The landscape was lightly dusted in snow and bloated clouds overhead threatened to spill rain. He remembered a time when he was a child hiding out in an arroyo with a homemade bow. Between the silvery heads of Apache plume, he watched the coyote as it scavenged on the dry river bed, vulnerable, unsuspecting. Pulling the draw string to his cheek, he watched the arrow as it cambered and fell, striking the animal in the throat. He wasn't afraid then, and here he was dreading the interview like he dreaded his first day at middle school. Only he wasn't a child anymore. He was an adult.

With a gun.

Pastor Razz shifted beside him and yawned. He'd been asleep most of the way since they left Albuquerque and now he had an odd grin on his plump face. "Nice car, son. Pink is it?"

"Cabernet red," Darryl stressed. The 1964 Comet had once been his father's toy.

"I had a dream," Razz said, pretending to look at the sagebrush. "Mighty revealing it was."

Darryl grinned, hoping it wasn't one of those prophetic dreams. They always seemed to give Razz x-ray vision after he'd had them. He looked out at a speckled wilderness regimented with green piñon trees and cone-shaped hills. The remains of a white fir lay embedded by the side of the road, bark calcified like the bones of some prehistoric animal. And sagebrush . . . he hated the sagebrush. He couldn't stand the smell.

"You're all teeth and no brains," Razz said. His wide face was stern and there were more jowls on him than a bulldog. "Just 'cause you got flow-through turbo mufflers doesn't mean you can go faster than the speed of sound. This ain't no runway."

Darryl darn-well wished it was. He'd be flying by now.

"Just cruise and you'll get there just as quick," Razz said, patting his gut. "You look tired, son. And pale."

Pale? That would be a miracle, Darryl thought, especially for a man rooted in the Deep South, the darkest South that is.

"You're scared, that's what it is. You're scared of that little red notebook and what she saw."

"I'm scared of what I might do," Darryl whispered.

"I spoke to the detective," Razz said. "He says all you have to do is sit still behind a sheet of glass and listen. It's what you wanted."

It was exactly what Darryl wanted. He wanted a close look at this Morgan Eriksen so he could take a potshot at him.

"Where did you get that suit from?" Darryl said, changing the subject.

"Where I get all my suits from," Razz said, pulling on the brown lapels and adjusting a wide tie with a crab on it. "Thrift. At least I don't walk around with my fly undone."

That was the thing with Razz. He loved a leg-puller now and then. Truth was the suit had some serious shine on, especially around the butt.

"It's nearly lunch," Razz said. "We should pull over and eat our sandwiches."

"Sandwiches?" Darryl was hoping for a decent meal at José Cabañas. And here they were, two cool dudes in their Oaklies, about to spread a picnic rug on the wide shoulder.

"Pull over," Razz repeated.

Darryl thought Razz sounded a bit miffed and pulled over. There was something in his tone that he didn't much like and he couldn't remember a bag of sandwiches in Razz's sticky paw when he picked him up.

He knows what's in that icebox, you moron.

The passenger door flew open and Razz stood there glaring at him. Either he wanted to chew Darryl out or he was passing a truckload of gas. "You think I've got a brain smaller than a walnut?"

The thought had never occurred to Darryl as he gripped the wheel. He admired Razz, if he was honest, only he was mean when he just woke up and this was one of those times.

"I know what you're hiding," Razz said, pointing at the icebox on the back seat. His face was all twisted as if a dog had left something strange on his porch. He leaned against the door and the Comet almost lurched under his weight. "It's not worth it. You'll get bleeding ulcers and die of a heart attack. And you're only forty-two."

"Who says?"

"God says."

"God should mind His own business," Darryl said, regretting the day he ever went to church. He had been compelled to answer an altar-call in 1994 and he'd been pretending ever since.

"Jesus loves you," Razz said. "You know that and so do I. Trouble is, He also loves that homicidal maniac we're about to see."

"That's His problem, not mine."

"Let me tell you what your problem is. Kill Morgan Eriksen and you'll be the next dead-man-walking, furry slippers and all."

Darryl had never led a lawless life and the thought of doing time in a six by eight foot cell was not what he had in mind.

"I'm talking about the gun you got in that cooler," Razz said, pointing at the back seat.

"Oh, don't tell me. God's got eyes in the back of His head."

"He's got eyes for you my son."

"Then he's a snitch."

Razz stroked his tie and took a deep breath. "So you do have a gun in that cooler."

Darryl wished he'd kept his big mouth shut and worse than that; the gun was wrapped in a Subway wrapper and made to look like a meatball marinara.

"You'll never get past the x-ray machines."

They've got x-ray machines? Darryl opened his door and got out of the car. He needed time to think. It was the coldest January in history and he grabbed a black ski jacket off the back seat. He thought he could smell burning piñon in a wood stove, a rich fragrance that reminded him of Santa Fe. But there was nothing out there except brush and sand.

"You'll get high blood pressure," Razz assured, looking up at the sky. "And you'll wind up dead just like Kizzy."

"Anything's better than this," Darryl said, walking over to Razz. "Is it wrong to want to die?"

"It's only wrong if you want to do yourself in," Razz said, putting a hand on Darryl's shoulder. "Life's a gift. It would be wrong to waste it."

Darryl didn't want to die if it meant sleeping for eternity in a pit blacker than a manhole. He'd rather be doing things. And he didn't want to do himself in. He'd likely miss even if he tried. "Do you think of dying?"

"I look forward to it. It'll be like running into a Pro Football Stadium and hearing thousands of voices cheering you on. That's what real champions do. The grass would be greener of course, none of those brown patches and weeds. And your dad would be sitting in the front row telling you to pull your fly up for the umpteenth time."

Darryl managed a light chuckle. "And Kizzy?"

"She'll be in the royal box, son, waving a medal. You got plenty to live for. And you need to go back to church. You'll be a free man if you do. Do yourself a favor. Don't pull the trigger. You couldn't hit a deer at ten yards."

"I could."

"Nah, you'd shoot your foot off."

Darryl frequently missed the target at the shooting range but at least he practiced once a week. He'd been practicing for a day such as this . . .

"What about your girls?" Razz said, jutting his chin at the car. He climbed in and pulled out a brown paper bag from under the passenger seat.

Darryl hadn't thought about his surviving daughters much. He hadn't thought about his sanity either. He walked back to the driver's seat and stared through the rear-view mirror. A car shimmered on the horizon, trickling towards them with a trail of exhaust fumes. "So you did bring sandwiches," he said, mouth watering at the thought.

"Ham and mustard, my son," Razz said with a big white smile. "I made them myself."
CHAPTER 5

David sat alone in the interview room and looked at his watch. It was twelve-thirty and it felt like evening. The weather forecast had predicted snow and he hoped Darryl Williams would make it in an hour. Darryl wanted to come face-to-face with his daughter's murderer and face-to-face meant sitting behind a sheet of glass. As for the little red notebook, he was mighty reluctant to hand it over. He turned a tear-stained page and a deep and gnawing sadness began to build inside. David saw a vision through the wooden slats of a barn wall, a vision Kizzy had the day she died.

Monday, 6/25. M brought me another pudding. I don't like the taste. I'm thinking it's got something in it that makes me sleepy. I'm in a small room in a barn, dad. I can see through the wall and its light outside. I found this notebook in the straw. I hope you can read it.

Tuesday 6/26. M took me to choose a tree. He said we could go fishing so I told him about our holiday. I told him about Jesus but he doesn't know Him. He says I'll believe in flying saucers next. Its night now and there's a light on in the barn and the fridge makes a noise. I can see a girl lying on a table wrapped in a blanket. She's not moving. There's a man with a knife and I can hear voices. I'm really scared, dad. I don't want to look. But I saw what he did to her. I've been sick. M's coming. He's got food again.

I think its Wednesday. The girl's gone. M was angry with me. He saw I'd been sick and said I'd been snooping. He said Odin's coming for me this afternoon. I bit him dad and he slapped me. I know you're looking for me but its taking so long.

The note stopped there because the little pencil she used ran out of lead. The crime scene investigator found the notebook buried in the straw, an old milking journal with a small pencil tied to the spine. They could see the table through a gap in the wooden slats from the bed but fortunately not the contents of the fridge since it was turned to one side. . .

A shuffling and a clinking of chains brought David back to the present. A correctional officer brought Morgan back in and sat him down with a harsh word.

"Are you sleeping okay?" David said, hoping it wasn't as much as his dog was getting.

"Not much."

David was glad. Prison wasn't supposed to be a picnic.

"There's a demon in the Pen. Looks like a gargoyle. He's sitting over here."

Of course he is. David looked at the empty chair against the wall and felt a twinge of fear like a cudgel in his ribs. "You're in Supermax, right?"

"Level VI. Death Row," Morgan confirmed. "We sex offenders always stick together, Detective Van. Always. Stick. Together."

David bit his lip to stop from smiling. Morgan was dreaming up all kinds of guff in that comfy little bunk of his. "Tell me what happened on the morning of June 26th?" he said, changing the subject.

"When the rain stopped I took her for a walk in the woods. I asked her to choose a tree. All the girls choose trees. We marked it with a ribbon."

Odd, this tree thing, David thought until he remembered the carved faces and the odor of paint and turpentine. Someone had been happy with a paintbrush.

"She started to shiver and I didn't want her to be cold," Morgan continued.

"And that bothered you?"

"Yes. I look after my friends."

Friends? There was nothing friendly in a good kidnapping. David couldn't help thinking he was looking in the face of a hand-grenade without a pin. "Did you touch her, Morgan?"

"No. We talked."

"What did you talk about?"

"Her mother. My mother."

Morgan's dead mother was a scary thing. She was a crack addict and sold two of her four children to support the habit. She was found some years later hanging from a roller towel in a truck-stop bathroom. None of the police could understand how she did it, roller towels being so close to the ground and all.

"She said there was a voice in the wind, a still, small voice. I don't believe in that stuff," Morgan said, eyes flicking from side to side. "I believe in other things."

"What kind of things?"

"Wings and voices." Morgan's voice was smoother than a shrink. "You can hear them if you care to listen."

David shook his head. It was all beginning to sound like a ghostly freak show.

"The demons of the nine worlds, Detective, half-animal, half-man. Odin's horde."

David wasted no time during his break to research Odin, a Norsk god, hanged from the world tree for nine days and nights. Only this Odin was beginning to sound like a real person and that was the part that bothered him.

"Kizzy wanted to go to the river," Morgan murmured with a loud sigh. We went to the beaver ponds to catch fish."

"What kind of fish?"

"Trout. There're loads of them behind the boulders. She told me to close my eyes so I could listen to the trees. God's music she called it."

Pity she hadn't run away when your eyes were closed. David had a vision of a little girl sitting on a rock like one of those woodland fairies he had seen in a book. She was a little person once. She was a little person still.

"We caught three and put them on the coals. It was her last supper."

Last supper . . . The words seemed to linger in David's ears like a sad song.

Morgan leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Then it was Wednesday, Odin's day. That's when it happened."

Wednesday, June 27 . . . David felt a sliver of terror. He imagined a hunter's knife slicing through skin and bones and he had to clamp his lips together to stop from heaving.

"What happened, Morgan?" David said, clearing his throat.

"She'd been snooping. I could tell by the vomit. She hadn't eaten the food I gave her. So I fed her the pudding, double the dose this time. And then Odin came. He takes care of the ranch. He takes care of the trees."

David flexed the muscles in his legs. So Odin was the caretaker, the face-carver.

"The trees are like headstones you see."

There were no bodies buried under the trees. The dogs would have found them if there were, David thought.

"He got mad at me for keeping her so long," Morgan said. "He said I should have called him before the ninth hour."

The ninth hour in biblical times was around three o'clock in the afternoon. Kizzy should have died the same day she was taken only Morgan took his sweet time.

"And why was Kizzy any different?" David said.

"She treated me with respect. She called me sir." Morgan bit his lip and his gaze drifted to the left. "I liked her, you see. But I am what I am."

"What are you, Morgan?"

"A victim just like you," Morgan sniffed and raised his chin. "She wasn't scared of me before then. But I think she knew."

"Knew what, Morgan?"

"She knew she was going to die."

The drone of Morgan's voice was more than David could stand. He hardly listened to the details and he hoped there were enough drugs in that cocktail to have knocked Kizzy out cold.

"Do you know why I asked for you?" Morgan whispered.

David shook his head. He had no idea.

"Because Odin wants nine sacrifices. Nine."

David lifted one eyebrow. He thought of the upright stones at the ranch. From the sky they would have appeared as two elliptical shapes joined together like a Norse funeral ship. Burial places. Only there was nothing buried there. "I guess he's one girl short then."

"I'd check your phone if I were you."

David refused to fall for it. Nothing had vibrated in his jacket pocket since breakfast and he wasn't about to pander to a deranged mind. "Tell me, Morgan . . ."

"Your phone," Morgan insisted.

David took the phone from his pocket and noted the flashing light with some impatience. There was a message from the principal at Valley Christian School.

Sorry for your loss. Ophelia on her way with Sgt. Alvarez. Call if you need anything.

Luis Alvarez was David's brother-in-law, the fastest draw with Ruger Security Six. There was nothing unusual in the message. As for his loss . . . David's wife was in Taos visiting a hypochondriac of a mother-in-law. He hoped the woman had already croaked. It would save at least a hundred miles in gas.

"You see," Morgan said, face clouded with insanity, "we must never underestimate the enemy."

"The enemy?" David said.

"Sergeant Alvarez," Morgan whispered. "He's not who he says he is."

Somehow David could already taste the bile in his throat and the muscles jumping under his skin. He was familiar with that deep dark feeling of dread, the one that tells a man he's lost the most precious thing he owns. The chair scraped against the vinyl floor as he struggled to stand and he lurched towards the corridor, gasping for air.
CHAPTER 6

Darryl chewed his sandwich thoughtfully as the car pulled up behind them. A dark uniform reminded him of a few red lights he'd run and it would be just his luck if he was ticketed for speeding. Money was tight, too tight for a hundred dollar fine.

"Is there a law against parking and eating," he muttered, mesmerized by a row of flashing lights.

"Troopers patrol this stretch of road for cons," Razz said between mouthfuls. "Two escaped last winter and got all the way to Golden. We don't look like cons, son. At least I don't."

"There's a cop right behind us and he's just sitting there," Darryl said, watching a thick-set man with a few days growth on his chin. It was a pursuit car and a Dodge Charger at that.

"Anyone can park on a hard shoulder," Razz said, wiping a glob of mustard from his chin.

"This hard shoulder?" Darryl began to feel uneasy, like he'd just woken up and found a hate-message written on his mirror in lipstick.

Razz turned his head and looked out of the rear window. "He's got a kid in the front seat. He might just be doing a routine check."

David watched the police officer get out of his car, revolver gripped in one hand, muzzle pointed at the ground. There was something odd about the uniform, something that gripped at his conscience. It was city issue not State, and the man was well out of his jurisdiction.

Cops don't tout guns for routine checks . . .

Darryl waited until the man was parallel to the tail lights of his Comet before his stomach lurched into a state of panic. He turned the key in the ignition and floored it.

He couldn't remember telling Razz to get down but he heard the shot and felt the warmth of Razz's head on his lap. They were hurtling along the road at forty miles an hour and climbing. But the cruiser was gaining on them and Darryl felt a sick sensation in the pit of his gut. He checked the rearview mirror and saw the driver, closer now and sporting a stubborn grimace. The child beside him appeared to be crying.

He's a car thief and he's not having my Mercury-man wheel caps, Darryl thought, pushing his foot down as far as it would go. All he could see in his rearview mirror was a pile of smoke and a Dodge Charger up his rear.

"Razz!" he shouted.

He heard a grinding of metal and felt the thrust. The front of the Comet almost lifted from the ground, forcing a string of profanity from his mouth. He felt Razz roll off his lap like a rag doll, jammed between the bottom of the steering wheel and his right knee, and he saw the crimson stain on his jeans.

Razz had taken a hit.

And then his whole world began to spin before it went black.

When he came too, he heard a faint buzzing like a dragonfly bouncing from stalk to stalk. There was a stench of burning sage and something tart and heavy like gasoline, and he thought he saw a figure dragging something along the ground.

"Razz?" He hardly recognized his voice, faint, croaking over the crackling flames. He was too afraid to move.

The smell of burning rubber was stronger now and he heard the squeak of a wheel in the distance. Shards of glass stabbed at his legs and there was pressure on his chest as if he had been winded. Snow fell in large clumps from dirty grey clouds that scudded in from the west and a far-away howl suggested coyotes nearby. He couldn't see them but he knew they were there.

I can feel my legs, he thought. I can feel my fingers.

The Dodge was twenty feet to his left, barely visible behind a wall of smoke. It was upside down and gutted with flames. The Comet was beyond it close to the curb and listing against a sandbank. Both doors were open and judging by the distance from the road, it had rolled at least twice before landing on its wheels.

It might even be drivable, he hoped, narrowing his eyes to the smoke. He sensed in that moment that his body had been thrown from the vehicle. It was completely intact, cushioned by a thick mound of sagebrush.

It was a miracle, the type Razz always talked about.

A whimpering sound made him turn his head towards the Dodge and there in the dirt, huddled by a rock barely six feet from the front fender, was a child.

Kizzy, he wanted to shout and his heart throbbed so hard it almost hurt. She looked just like her, same green blazer, same pleated skirt.

He took his time standing, managing little more than a hobble. He made his way towards the girl, making out two braids and a wealth of black hair. Large brown eyes looked up at him and he saw two bloody knees peeking beneath a torn skirt.

"Can you move your legs?"

"I think so." She moved them just to make sure.

"What's your name," he said, wincing from the pain in his left leg. He could hardly kneel.

"Ophelia," the child whispered.

"I'm Darryl, Darryl Williams," he said, picking the glass from his arms.

He looked back at the Dodge and its burned-out windshield. There was no blackened corpse behind the wheel and there wasn't one on the ground. It was the eerie silence that bothered him and the trees beyond the wreckage seemed to pulse with life as if something moved in the shadows.

He coaxed Ophelia to her feet, feeling the grip of her fingers. She was tall for her age and scared. She sensed something too.

"You go to Valley Christian School?" he said, pointing at her blazer.

"Yes."

"It's a good school." Darryl swallowed hard and brushed her blazer with a paternal hand. "My girls are there. Keryn and Tessa Williams. Do you know them?"

"Yes," she said, wiping her eyes.

It was the only bond he could think of and a paltry one at that. He wanted her to feel safe. He wanted her to trust him.

"Who was the man with you?" he asked, catching the grimace. "Not someone you know then?"

"He was taking me to my dad," she stammered. "I don't know why."

She was too confused to know why and too frightened to remember. She cried then, just a little.

"We better find him."

Darryl turned to look at the cruiser and saw nothing but twisted metal. There were fragments of rubber on the ground torn from the front tires and judging by a pile of glass, the driver's window had been smashed from the inside. There was a trail in the sand about ten feet from the car as if something had been dragged along the ground. The officer must have pulled Ophelia to safety before the car exploded. But why did he leave her?

"It's okay," Darryl said, coaxing her with a slight tug. "We need to get out of here."

Ophelia nodded and grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. The Comet was empty too, hood slightly buckled and a spatter of blood on the passenger window. The key was still in the ignition, fob swinging slightly in the cool breeze.

They found Razz lying on his side as if he merely slept. He never had time to put his seatbelt on when they sped off the hard shoulder and he was already dead by the time the car spun out of control.

Funny how the dead don't linger, not even to say goodbye.

Darryl felt a dry sob rising in his throat. He had never felt more alone. He never felt more exposed. There they were, standing in a flaming stretch of brush with something out there watching. He stood abruptly and told himself he wasn't crying. It was just the smoke.

A tug on his sleeve made him turn and he noticed Ophelia was pointing beyond the burning brush. Darryl saw them too, twenty or more pairs of eyes watching, waiting, a pack of coyotes ready to scavenge amongst the rubble. He walked Ophelia towards the Comet and strapped her into the front seat.

He saw her face clearly then as he put a hand on her shoulder, speaking in a reassuring voice. She was calmer, eyes pointed forward as if counting the snowflakes on the windshield.

"Better?" he asked, taking off his jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders.

"Yes," she whispered, hands drawn in two tight knuckles.

He walked around to the driver's seat and climbed in beside her. Reaching towards the back seat, he found the icebox wedged behind the consul. The lid was thrown back and all he could see inside was a pile of wrappers as if someone had rifled through the contents.

The gun was gone.

Darryl closed his eyes for a second. It had to be here somewhere.

The whimpering caught him off-guard and he turned to see Ophelia's lips moving. He couldn't hear what she was saying but he could see what she saw. A dark figure staggered towards the car with a gun in his hand and Darryl recognized the torn uniform and the duty belt.

He turned the key in the ignition.

Silence.

He tried again, hearing only a faint whirring sound from the engine.

"Get down," he hissed.

Ophelia lowered her head and covered herself with the jacket. Darryl turned the key again. A third time and the car grunted into life, back right wheel skidding through the sand. The scrape of metal on tarmac alerted Darryl to a loose front fender and he prayed it would hold once they were on the road.

And then he heard two shots.
CHAPTER 7

David hardly listened to agent's droning voice. None of it made any sense. The sweet smell of tea made his throat tighten and he couldn't drink another cup even if he tried. Strange memories began to swirl though his mind and he saw himself as a child, frightened of his father, frightened of life.

Stand up soldier, his father would say. And wipe those eyes. Men don't cry.

David never cried after that, at least not that he could remember. He went through life protected by a thick wall of indifference. It was safer that way.

At thirty-eight, he was recognized as one of the most persuasive negotiators the police had, a man with whom the prisoner could relate. According to his boss, there was one thing the department disliked and that was his unique quietness, the irrefutable feeling that he was hiding something. No one really knew him. But that's how David liked it.

They can never build a case against me, he thought.

Only they did, of course. They blamed him for flashing his credentials to get out of numerous speeding tickets and for rolling a few joints in his time. He wasn't guilty of the former. The latter, of course, was different matter. All this was before Morgan Eriksen insisted he would talk to no one else. It shook the department up a bit.

David was assigned to the case four months ago when the lead detective vanished without a trace. His car was found burned out on the hard shoulder on NM14 with a decapitated rabbit on the front seat. There was a brown luggage tag attached to its back leg with the words until the ninth hour written in black ink and in perfect cursive.

David's mind kept circling back to the murders, monstrous deaths that should never have happened. Children ripped from their schools so easily by a maniac. One little girl was taken by a school bus painted white with the name San Felipe Catholic School printed on the outside. Although the color was not standard yellow, the parents assumed the bus was genuine.

"David," Agent Stu Anderson said, opening his laptop. "Sgt. Alvarez is dead and his car is missing. Listen to me. All districts have been notified. We'll find him."

A wave of panic washed over David. Oh God please don't let anything happen to Ophelia. Let it be a mistake. Find someone to help her. Anyone.

"Let me find her," David whispered, half-rising from his chair.

"You know I can't do that."

The room began to spin and David couldn't breathe. A detective too emotional to control his feelings was like a doctor operating on his own child. It just wasn't allowed.

"A woman called in last night after watching America's Most Wanted," Stu said, tapping the keys of the computer with some urgency. His glasses reflected random pictures, a line-up by the look of it. "She was sure the escaped fugitive was drinking in a bar on San Mateo. She called 911 rather than the hotline number. The dispatcher sent Sgt. Alvarez. We found out later the fugitive used a piece from his eyeglasses to stab Alvarez in the neck. His body was found two hours ago in an arroyo on Pennsylvania Blvd south of Montgomery."

David winced. Luis Alvarez was his favorite brother-in-law. He couldn't be dead.

"The fugitive made one fatal mistake," Stu said. "He couldn't identify Ophelia from a group of fifty students standing by the school bus. So he went straight to the principal's office with an ill-fitting uniform and a sob-story about a death in your family. That's how he got her."

Why so specific? Why his little girl? "Who's got her?"

"Oliver Dinaris," Stu said, taking care with his words, "the caretaker of the Tolby ranch."

David repeated the name in his mind, savoring every last syllable. "Odin," he whispered.

Stu nodded slowly. "Sgt. Alvarez's car was last seen heading north on Highway 14. They think he's further than Los Cerrillos. Looks like Dinaris is on his way here."

Darryl Williams was on his way here. Only he was late.

Very late.

David looked at his watch. It was one-thirty in the afternoon. All he could think about was his little girl locked in the back seat of a police cruiser. At least Odin wasn't wasting any time on the Turquoise Trail or hiding out in the brush where no one could find him.

"Why is he coming here?"

Stu stared at his laptop and scowled. "Your predecessor was the only man we had who could have identified Oliver Dinaris in a line-up. I believe you're the second. Ophelia's a hostage, David. He's not going to hurt her. It's you he wants."

Me for her, thought David. "Get me a car. Now!"
CHAPTER 8

Somewhere in the distance Darryl heard a whisper of sounds, louder now over the sound of the engine. He couldn't see where he was going but he sure hoped it was straight.

Lifting his head only slightly, he could hear the ping of a bullet as it bounced off the back fender and another as it crashed through the back window. Glass rained down on the seats and the car almost swerved over the center line before he steered it back. There was silence then except for the growling engine and a whimpering child.

"It's okay Kizz," he said. And then he remembered.

All the while along that lonely stretch of road he couldn't stop thinking about the last time he saw Kizzy. She no longer existed behind those sightless eyes. A small head wrapped in a white towel, hair still tied in a ponytail. That was the part that made him cry.

The crime, as it was called, was an unbelievable act that had taken everything and left nothing behind. Nothing except pain that is, indescribable, heart-wrenching pain.

"Keep the wheel straight." Ophelia's sharp voice crashed through Darryl's thoughts. He realized she was staring at him and the road ahead. "Might want to get some gas," she said.

The needle on the gas gauge was on empty. That's when Darryl began to panic. The car made it over a camber, coughing and sputtering before stopping altogether. There was nothing in the rearview mirror but a dark stretch of road beneath a purple swirling sky.

"There's an arroyo down there," Ophelia said, almost pressing her forehead against the passenger window. "If we push the car off the road and hide it in the brush, he won't find us."

Clever girl, Darryl thought, hoping he had enough strength to do what she said.

He steered the car into a clearing scattered with piñon trees and pushed it down a natural slope into the arroyo below. He heard the clunk as the front fender hit a soft pillow of sand and saltbrush, and he ran down after it with the girl at his heels. The arroyo stretched under the road, a grey bore of a tunnel and darker than a cellar.

"It's the most obvious hiding place," he murmured, peering into through the driver's window.

"Not if we cover our tracks," Ophelia said, panting behind him.

It was a chance but a very small one.

Darryl saw a familiar shape wedged behind the brake pedal and blew out a steam of relief. He unwrapped the gun from its Subway wrapper and thrust it in the waistband of his pants.

They brushed sand over the tire tracks with a few broken branches and Darryl looked up and down the road, eyes flicking from left to right. There was no indication of a bridge from the road, no barriers except grey pitted boulders on either side. It would be some time before the man ventured as far as the arroyo. And when he did, he would find it just as easily as they had.

Darryl wiped a snowflake from his nose and stared in the direction they had come. The road looked like an old wrinkled rug where nothing could be seen behind each somber crest and a plume of smoke rose somewhere from the eerie plains where the burnt-out Charger had been. He was reminded of a book he once read by C.S. Lewis . . . For the longest way round is the shortest way home. He figured they were three miles from the Pen and he would rather take his chances on the road.

"How far can you walk, Ophelia?" he asked.

"A mile," she said, shrugging.

He knew she had no idea how far a mile was and his mouth became suddenly dry. The screech of a hawk drowned the moaning wind for an instant and he noticed the clouds were darker now against the Sangra de Cristo Mountains.

And then he heard a noise. Panting. Trudging.

A man running.

He pointed over Ophelia's shoulder, heart pounded like a jackhammer. "Let's get out of here. Now!"

They ran towards a knot of wafer-ash some fifty feet from the car on the opposite slope. It was too dense for the man to see them and the prairie was covered in thickets like them. Now the process of waiting was suddenly eerie, threatening, and the scuffing shoes against the tarmac were closer.

And then it stopped.

Darryl passed an arm around the girl and pulled her close. He could tell by her agitated breathing she wasn't just cold.

"What's he doing?" she asked.

"I don't know." Darryl tried to listen over a shriek of wind. He could see nothing for what seemed like an eternity.

"So you're Kizzy's dad?" Ophelia whispered as if time was running out.

The question took him by surprise and he nodded, keeping an eye on the road, keeping an eye on the time. Two forty-four in the afternoon. He should have been at the Pen by now.

"I always sit next to her in art," Ophelia murmured.

Sat, Darryl wanted to correct, lips pressed tightly together.

"She painted a picture of a wood once. All blue and green it was. Nothing like this," she said, pointing at the brown desert.

"It's England," Darryl said, eyes focused on the road. "Where the bluebells are."

"That's what she said." Ophelia gave a rueful smile and winced. "I really liked her. Everyone did."

"Thank you," Darryl whispered, lowering his head for a moment before looking deep into a pair of dark eyes. "You're pretty special too."

Ophelia smiled.

Darryl sensed movement and raised two fingers in front of her face, jutting his chin at the road. The man was standing on the hard shoulder, head turned downwards as if he was studying something. The uniform was torn at the thigh and sleeves, and there was blood on his neck. He was swarthier than Darryl hoped, taller too.

There would have been scuff marks on the tarmac from the damaged fender . . .

The man walked down the slope to the arroyo just as Darryl knew he would. He had senses like a dog, a bloodhound at that. The shout took them both by surprise. It was hideous, mocking, amplified by the tunnel under the road.

"O p h e l i a," the voice chanted. "Come out, come out. Or I'll hang you in the trees with the others."

But he couldn't have seen them. It wasn't possible.

Darryl wasted no time. He grabbed Ophelia by the hand and ran through the brush parallel to the road. He didn't look back. If he did, all his strength would be torn from him and he would be unable to move. The girl was fast, overtaking him with long strides that contradicted all five feet of her and Darryl was only ten inches taller and he could hardly keep up.

Gunfire exploded behind them and Darryl weaved behind Ophelia, shouting at her to do the same.

"Run!" he shouted. "Run, Kizzy," he murmured, watching her scamper towards the road, running like a deer towards a flashing light. He caught a vision of Kizzy running like a hare only this time she got away.

He turned then and stood his ground, drawing the revolver from his back.

Please God, don't let me miss.

He fired two shots at the man, so tall now he almost engulfed him.

But something pierced his gut, tearing shards of flesh and blood into the air. He didn't remember falling or how his face was pressed against the cold earth. But the last thing he saw was the watch on his left hand and beyond it snowflakes settling on the naked stubs of Apache plume. He had cut the stem off one once to make an arrow shaft when he was a boy . . .

We can't hate them, son, except what's inside them. That's why we forgive. They don't know what they're doing.

It was three o'clock just as Darryl lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 9

David found Darryl three days ago on NM14, only four miles from the Pen. He was so close. They picked up the body of Oliver Dinaris only feet from where Darryl lay. He had two gunshot wounds to his chest.

"You did the taxpayers a favor when you killed that man," David said, steering the car along Penitentiary Road and looking at his passenger with pride. "And you saved my daughter's life."

"I can't believe I killed him," Darryl murmured, wincing from the sling. I actually killed a man? It was what he wanted but somehow it felt all wrong.

"In self-defense," David corrected, looking at a man haunted with grief. There was something else behind those dark eyes, a peace, that wasn't there seven months ago.

David placed the little red notebook on Darryl's lap and he heard the gentle sob. There was nothing more he could say except to tell the truth before Darryl heard it from another source. "We found the bodies high up in the trees. The dogs failed to capture the scent over the smell of paint and turpentine, thanks to what you remembered."

I'll hang you in the trees with the others. The voice was only a faint memory now.

"How did he do it?" Darryl whispered.

"We found a twenty foot extension ladder in the barn and plenty of rope. Eriksen said the gods could see the victims better if they were higher up." David knew how flippant it all sounded. He parked the car and turned off the ignition. "We never saw them in the summer because of the leaves and they were wrapped in burlap, well camouflaged against the bark."

"Did Eriksen kill the girls?" Darryl asked.

"He kidnapped them."

"But did he kill them?"

"No."

Darryl took of his seat belt and sighed loudly. "Will he die?"

"He's an accessory." David opened his door and looked up at a barbwire fence and the stark grey face of the Pen. "He'll fry if I have anything to do with it."

"I promised Razz I would go back to church again. Only this time it's going to be different. This time I'm going to be free."

David had no idea what he meant but he nodded all the same. "I hardly ever go. Just don't see the point."

"Well that's the thing. Now I do see the point," Darryl said.

David couldn't understand why Darryl wanted to waste his time with such a nutcase. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Darryl nodded. "I want to understand. I want to know why."

"There's nothing to understand. A killer is a killer, a creature of incredible appetite. He blends in so you would never know. Alone, he isolates himself from humanity and all the while he lives in a valium-filled trance, pretending he is more than he is, a conqueror. But they all have one thing in common. They're unable to control their inner-monster. Dinaris employed Eriksen to bring him eight girls for the purpose of a ritual killing. That makes him sadistically violent in my opinion. Eriksen's different. He assumes no character other than his own and he's merely a pawn in another man's charade. The only similarity is an abusive childhood where he wanted to kill himself. Only he preyed on the innocent instead."

"For someone else."

"For someone else," David agreed. "He was paid thirty thousand dollars to fulfill Dinaris' fantasy. He did it willingly. No one forced him."

"Why did they keep the heads?"

"Souvenirs . . . it serves to refuel the fantasy. So they would never forget."

David took Darryl to the observation room and sat him down. "Just so you know," he said, "Eriksen has a bruise around his neck. He tried to hang himself with a prison issue towel last night and was found bug-eyed and slumped on the floor. I guess the sixteen penny nail in the ceiling wasn't strong enough."

"He tried to kill himself?"

"The doctor called it a sting of conscience but men like that don't have a conscience. So he'll waste away in a jail cell until he dies alone. Then he'll know what it's like to be afraid."

"No man should ever have to die alone."

Eriksen was brought in to the interview room and Darryl stared through the glass as if he were studying a priceless painting. "So this is the man that kidnapped my little girl."

"Yes." It's not every day David brought a parent to experience vicariously the horror of a murder. He was a little afraid if he was honest.

Darryl took a few deep breaths. "He doesn't look like a killer."

Morgan Eriksen looked like all the others as far as David was concerned. Worse even. He could probably charm the socks off a homeless person. "He thinks he's a champion but he's the scum of the earth."

"He could be a champion."

David had no answer to that. "I'll go and talk to him now. Is there anything you want me to ask him?"

Darryl smiled. "Ask him if he would like to hear the cheers in a football stadium. Ask him if he wants to know what it takes to be a real champion."

*About the Author*

CMT Stibbe is the daughter and sister of two published authors. She writes books that explore flawed characters and is best known for her lyrical prose and detailed research. With her love of world travel from the UK to the Middle East, the Holy Land and the Far East, Claire makes her home in New Mexico, USA with her husband and son.

Her first novel, Chasing Pharaohs, is a book of ancient Egypt and tells a loose tale of Pharaoh Thutmose II. Chasing Pharaohs is set for release in September, 2013. Stibbe's second book, The Snare of the Fowler, also set in the 18th Dynasty, is still in the editing and writing process. It was selected as Wednesday's One to Watch by Harper Collins in December, 2012.

For more information about Stibbe and her current and upcoming works visit the link below to her author website.

http://cmtstibbe.weebly.com/index.html
Other BHB books we recommend:

**Fantasy**

The Ark of Humanity, by Scott J. Toney

Eden Legacy, by Scott J. Toney

Horker's Law, by Mike Lee

The Beholder, by Ivan Amberlake

The Firelord's Crown, by Dee Harrison

**Sci-Fi**

Fey, by Mike Lee

StarFire, by Mike Lee

**Horror**

Doubles, by Melissa Simonson

Snuff, by Melissa Simonson

**Dark Paranormal**

Limerence, by Claire C Riley

**Crime Thriller**

Hazard Pay, by Melissa Simonson

**Woman's Fiction**

The Wishing Place, by Mindy Haig

Hearts of Avon, by Scott J. Toney

The Young and the Reckless, by Melissa Simonson

**Christian**

Lazarus, Man, by Scott J. Toney

The Messenger, by Mindy Haig

Glory, by Mindy Haig

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